


The Grindr Logo Doesn't Even Have a 'G' In It

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, But also, DESIIIIIIRE, Dirty Talk, Drunken Shenanigans, Eventual Happy Ending, Footnotes, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grindr, Longing, M/M, Masturbation, Mistaken Identity, OR IS IT, Original Character(s), Phone Sex, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Very Rapidly Smutty, Yearning, and also some crying, but it all works out ok in the end, but there's definitely a whole heap of fluffy nonsense within, i love these two idiots ok, i wouldn't call this fluff, more like FUCKnotes, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 79,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: After the Apocalypse, Aziraphale ventures into a new space in the gay milieu - Grindr. There he starts talking to a charming young man who certainly doesn't bear any resemblance at all to a certain long streak of demon, not one bit, no thank you.Meanwhile, Aziraphale and Crowley navigate their friendship after the world failed to end. There is much drinking and silliness, but could it be that there are other feelings lurking underneath?? Of course there are, this is fanfic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2620
Kudos: 1197
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> good afternoon, friends! here it is - the behemoth ive been wrangling for the last few months. the title is a reference to the fact this whole thing is predicated on the grindr logo being the letter g, which it isnt and has never been, and which i realised was not the case about 500 words into writing (before it had even come up!) and just said 'eh, fuck it, call it an AU' and continued to write another 80,000 words of this nonsense.
> 
> i'll be putting specific content warnings re. acts and details into the notes for each chapter rather than filling the tags for the entire work. if there's anything you feel needs to be warned about up-front, do please tell me and ill pop them in the main tags. also, this is unbeta'd so if you see any howling errors please let me know xx
> 
> ill be updating weekly, though this week im putting up the prologue and the first chapter to get people going. it's all written and ready to go, and im so excited to share!
> 
> come and say hello on [tumblr!](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/)
> 
> edit - now with a [spiffy podfic version](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28025286) by the ever-wonderful podfixx!

_May, 2017_

  
"What," said Crowley, staring at the object on the table between them, "is that?"

Aziraphale looked down as if hadn't just pulled the offending item from his own pocket.

"It's a phone," he said.

"Your phone?"

"Yes, my phone, of course my phone. Why would I be carrying someone else's phone around with me?"

Crowley was sprawled in his chair, long legs kicked out in front of him at just the right angle to be a nuisance to passing waiters. He was staring as if Aziraphale had laid a dead fish on the table.

"Really, Crowley, is it so shocking that I should have a personal telephone?"

"I remember the fuss you made about central heating. Any advance into modern technology is a shock from you."

A waiter passed them, nearly tripped over Crowley's foot, caught himself at the last moment and walked off with a look of simmering rage, ready to bite the head off the next person who gave him the smallest reason. Crowley watched him leave and smiled at a job well done.

"Must you?" Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley's grin glittered. "You know I must."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sent a gentle flood of good will through the room - nothing dramatic, just enough to encourage the other diners in the Saturday lunch rush to give rather healthier tips than usual. Crowley shuddered.

"I wish you wouldn't do that. Itches like anything."

"Yes, well, I wish you weren't such a wind-up merchant but here we are."

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat and tried to concentrate on his tagliatelle.

"Oh, now," said Crowley, leaning across the table. "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just a bit surprised, that's all. Can I see?"

He scooped up the phone before Aziraphale could answer and ran an appraising eye over it. It had been horribly awkward going in to buy the blessed thing. The shop had been teeth-gratingly bright, all clean lines and empty space in a style that made Aziraphale feel like Gabriel was going to step out at any moment to accost him about some personal failing or another.

He'd explained to the young man in a sharp-pressed uniform that he didn't need anything fancy. But he hadn't known enough about what the boy was telling him to be able to tell whether or not he'd made the right choice. The whole ordeal had left him feeling foolish and out of touch. Afterwards, he'd made a beeline for the nearest café, where it had taken him two slices of coffee cake to calm down.

At least the worst thing Crowley would do was tease him. He didn't mind that half so much. But he still felt a flutter of nerves as Crowley turned the phone over in his hands.

"It's a bit old," he said.

"It's second hand," said Aziraphale. "The electronics industry is one of the most unethical-"  


"Yes, yes, I know. Hell knows you've told me often enough.[1] Why are you so touchy about this? You never usually care what I think."

"That's not true."

The words made Crowley stare at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. Their eyes met - and dropped again almost immediately.

"You'll want to put a password on it," Crowley said quickly. "And you could get some apps and things, there's not much point having a smartphone if you don't have any apps."

"I don't need any apps."

"Oh, some of them are fun! You can get crossword ones and you can download books- Or not," he added when Aziraphale's expression darkened. "But there's bound to be some you'd enjoy. I can think of a few that would be right up your street."

Aziraphale finished his pasta, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "I really don't think that's necessary. Please, can we move on? There were some matters I wanted to discuss-"

"Oh, don't be like that…"

"-regarding the Arrangement, I have a few important opportunities coming up-"

"Angel! Can we at least leave the business talk until after dessert?"

Aziraphale eyed him doubtfully. "Are you having dessert?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps. That depends. What would you recommend?"

Aziraphale gestured in a way he clearly thought would give him a disinterested air and which was not the least bit convincing. "I hear the chocolate sorbet is quite good."

"And…?"

Pink rose in Aziraphale's cheeks and a glimmer of mischief came into his eyes. "Well, the crème brûlée is really rather tempting…"

Crowley smiled, well used to this particular pantomime. Obligingly, as if the idea had only just occurred to him, he said, "How about you order the sorbet, I get the crème brûlée, and we split them?"

The smile that broke over Aziraphale's face was one of pure delight.

"Oh, would you? That would be lovely!"

The two desserts came and Crowley hardly had to make any pretence of eating his before Aziraphale agreed to take it off his hands. Aziraphale soon got lost in the simple pleasure of eating, his eyes closed to concentrate on the tastes and textures. When he opened them again, Crowley was leaning back in his chair, watching him eat with a strange, slightly smiling expression.

"Crowley? Are you alright?"

"Hmm?"

“You're looking at me funny.”

Crowley sat up, pushing his glasses further up his nose and clearing his throat. “I'm fine. What do you need a phone for, anyway?”

"For emergencies," said Aziraphale primly.

"Emergencies? What kind of emergencies? You're an angel for pity's sake - who would you call, the celestial coastguards?"

Aziraphale's eyebrows twitched. He didn't look at Crowley when he answered. "I rather thought I could phone you, actually."

"I… Oh."

They had each other's numbers, of course, for the bookshop and the flat respectively. And they met in person often enough - increasingly often, since the whole Antichrist business, each instinctively reaching for the other’s company as a boon against the crisis they knew must surely be coming their way.  


It had been a few years since they retired from the Dowling household and handed over the boy’s infernal/celestial education to a pair of capable tutors. For his part, Crowley seemed perfectly happy. He’d liked the boy, despite himself, but he was apparently content to keep an eye on things from a distance.[2]

Aziraphale couldn't feel the same, no matter how he tried. He couldn't shake the sense that Something Bad was about to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd probed the feeling, and found that the only thing more frightening than the Something Bad was the idea that it would happen, and he wouldn't be able to find Crowley in time. He'd hastily put a stop to his introspection at that point – there was only so much honesty a heart could bear. But he'd been struck by the thought of Crowley's phone, how he never left home without it, how it was always on, always available. And the thought had stuck.

"I see," said Crowley. Aziraphale concentrated very hard on scraping the last of the crème brûlée from its ramekin. "Right. Well. I'd best put my number in, hadn't I?”

Relief crested on Aziraphale's face. "Oh, would you? Then I can send you an SMS and you'll have my number too, won't you?"

The careful precision with which Aziraphale said "SMS", each letter tinkling cleanly into place, made Crowley's lips twitch with amusement.

"Yeah, that's the idea,” he said. “Here, I'll do it for you while you finish."

“You're so kind, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, and much to Crowley's chagrin, he meant it.

Crowley only grunted, his thumbs already tapping across the phone's screen. He'd break the restaurant's card machine before he left – a healthy dose of chaos to balance him out.

#

Aziraphale didn't look at the phone again until later that night. He'd enjoyed his evening with Crowley very much. They had worked out a couple of upcoming engagements that they could take care of for one another, including a trip to Cardiff to do a divine intervention which Aziraphale was thrilled to exchange for a temptation in Brighton and the promise to buy Crowley dinner on his return. He'd always loved Brighton.

Business concluded, the conversation had turned to other things - nothing groundbreaking, just the kind of easy chatter that had been the hallmark of his time with Crowley for some centuries now. They sat and drank and talked until the evening drew in close and the staff of the restaurant started to lift chairs onto tables with significant looks towards them. Crowley had walked him back to the shop and they'd said their goodbyes, and if Aziraphale had fumbled with the key in the lock a little longer than he had to, and if he'd spent that small pocket of extra time watching Crowley walking away, a streak of dark against the gloaming… Well. That was between him and Her.

He locked the shop door behind him and left the lights off as he crossed to the staircase at the back of the room and climbed up to the little flat he'd made his home. Closing the flat door was like closing a door on the world. He toed off his shoes and padded, not sober but not quite drunk, down the hall to the kitchenette to make a last cup of tea before bed. Not that he tended to sleep - he just liked being in bed, enjoying the cosiness of clean sheets and fluffy pillows.

His head was full of quiet, dozy thoughts. He loved his bedroom, a space just for him with old rugs softening the warm, wooden floor, books piled from floor to ceiling, and a south-facing window that brought light into the room in drifts. It was hours before dawn but he left the curtains open and cracked the windows to bring in the smell of spring night in the city. With a lazy click of his fingers he removed his clothes and climbed into bed, snuggling down into the duvet. His toes wriggled with pleasure at the feel of the sheets against his skin. He took a few happy sips of tea and picked out one of the books on his bedside table.

Before he could start reading, a rhythmic, muffled buzz started somewhere in the room. Aziraphale waited for it to stop. It didn't. With a sigh he climbed out of bed and over to the armchair in the corner where he had miracled his clothes into a neat, folded pile. He rummaged in the trousers until he found the phone, bright lit and buzzing. Crowley's name flashed on the screen in time with the vibrations. Aziraphale tapped on the little green circle under his name and held the phone to his ear in a manner not dissimilar to a bomb disposal expert approaching a mysterious package in east Belfast.

"...hello?"

"Bloody hell, angel, what took you so long - trying to work out which button to press?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and miracled himself a pair of underpants. It felt unseemly not to.

"I was in bed."

"Why? Thought you didn't go in for that kind of thing?"

"I don't 'go in' for sleeping - I rather enjoy being in bed. It's peaceful," he added meaningfully.

Crowley laughed. "Don't worry, I'll let you get back to your very important lounging around. No doubt you've got a cup of tea going cold and a good book waiting."

"I do, as it happens." Aziraphale wandered back to the bed and climbed onto it, tucking his feet under the covers. "I've read it before though," he admitted. "What are you phoning for?"

"I just wanted to let you know, the phone's all set up and ready to go - it should be pretty intuitive once you've had a bit of time to click about, but if there's anything you're stuck on just drop me a text and I'll give you a hand."

"Is that it? You phoned to tell me to text you if I wanted to?"

"No!" Crowley sounded suddenly defensive. "No, it wasn't just that. It was, I wanted to-"

Aziraphale listened to him scrambling for an excuse with a smile. He scratched his chest absent-mindedly, curly white hair scrunching under his fingernails. For all of Crowley's swagger, he was so much more easily flustered than he let on.

"-lunch tomorrow, if you fancied it," Crowley eventually got around to saying.

Aziraphale considered. "Go on then," he said after a pause.

"Oh. Really? I thought you might... Well, we did just have dinner together."

"Then why did you ask?" Aziraphale laughed. He leant back against his pillows and stretched out his legs. "Is this what I've signed myself up for - random phone calls at all hours of the night about whatever nonsense crosses your mind?"

"You know what? Yes. Yes, I'm going to phone you whenever I like and it's going to drive you absolutely up the wall, you smug old tart."

"Heaven preserve me, I've invited the wrath of the mighty demon Crowley."

"I'm going to change your ring-tone to fart noises and phone you while you're in the library."

"I'm hanging up now."

"I'm going to set Nigel Farage as your lock screen."

"I'll meet you at St. James at twelve thirty."

"Make it one. Night, angel."

"Goodnight, dear."

#

Demons were not, as a rule, the type to keep their promises - but then again, Crowley was not your typical demon. His campaign against Aziraphale started at lunch the next day when he set Aziraphale's lock screen not to Nigel Farage – that would be too cruel, even for him – but to a photo of himself making a very rude gesture, and refused to tell him how to change it. A week later Aziraphale spent the day answering calls and texts from a number of people interested in buying a remarkably diverse list of sex toys from him, each more unlikely than the last. He tried to remain calm, and even directed a few people to some shops he knew that specialised in that sort of thing,[3] but by the thirtieth caller even his angelic patience was wearing a little thin.

'Who,' he texted Crowley in a moment of reprieve, 'is Craig? And why does his bloody list include my telephone number?'

Crowley responded with a photo not dissimilar to the one he'd used for the lock screen.

'Your a nightmare.' Aziraphale frowned. 'You're,' he typed. The word immediately changed to 'your'.

"Oh for goodness' sake..."

Crowley was, of course, unrepentant. The next time they met was the opening night of a new production of Private Lives by a promising young director of Aziraphale's acquaintance. Aziraphale was complaining about Crowley’s last guerrilla attack as they found their seats.

"I can't tell you how embarrassing it was, I wanted to crawl under my seat and hide for the rest of the journey! Excuse me, might we squeeze past? Thanks ever so. You know I like to sit in the quiet coach!"

They edged their way past the people already sitting at the end of the row, Aziraphale careful not to step on anyone's coats or scarves, Crowley making a point to.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Crowley grinned. "I can just imagine the look on your face."

They took their seats, Aziraphale blushing at the memory. "I swear I put it on silent, and then ten minutes later-"

"Perfect timing on my part, you must admit."

"I must admit nothing of the like!"

Crowley tipped his head back and laughed in earnest at that. "Oh I bet you went all sorts of colours! You're practically magenta just at the thought of it."

Aziraphale felt his face and ears burn even hotter. He tried not to laugh, but it had been quite funny, in a mortifying sort of way. He swatted at Crowley with his programme.

"You're a menace!"

"Aw, thanks. You're not so good yourself."

"I'm not buying you dinner. I took Brighton as a favour to you and-"

"You did not! You took it so you could go to that bougie little brasserie you read about in the Observer last month."

"Well. I admit that may have been a contributing factor but the point remains."

A voice rang out over the tannoy declaring that the performance would begin shortly and could all audience members please take their seats. Aziraphale pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped it open. He clicked through his settings and frowned.

"Now, look, is that on silent or what?"

Crowley paused, debating whether or not to tell him the truth. "Ehhh..."

"Crowley!"

"Alright, alright! Give it here. Look, I just changed the names of the settings, that's all. So the one called 'Loud', that's the actually silent one – no buzz, no noise, no nothing. But then 'Silent'..."

"Plays that horrid message you recorded, yes, I see. Oh you rotter," said Aziraphale with no malice whatsoever. "That's really quite clever."

Crowley smiled, smug as anything. "Thanks, I thought so. There, it's on silent now. For real this time."

Aziraphale took the phone from him and contemplated it for a moment. "Do you know, I'm just going to switch it off actually."

Crowley's expression was one of theatrical hurt. "Don't you trust me?"

"Categorically not."

Aziraphale turned off the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. The house lights dimmed and the background buzz of conversation fell quiet.

"Had you actually put it on silent?" Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley grinned. "Nope. Ten out of ten for thwartation."

"You're definitely buying dinner."

#  


Mercifully, the novelty of pranking Aziraphale wore off – though not until a number of weeks had passed. Aziraphale made the mistake of thanking Crowley for the reprieve, and promptly found himself signed up to a service that sent him fun facts about cats every day. He kept his thanks to himself after that.[4]  


By the time summer began in earnest, Crowley was limiting himself to the occasional flurry of selfies on Aziraphale's camera.[5] So when Aziraphale opened his phone after a pleasant afternoon at the Tate to find a raft of new apps had been downloaded, his only reaction was to wonder that it had taken Crowley so long to think of it.

'I assume,' he typed, 'that these applications are all set up to send me endless notifications?'

Crowley replied with a series of emojis. Aziraphale was about to text back complaining that Crowley knew very well he wasn't au fait with the nuances of emoji symbolism when Crowley took pity on him.

'angel, i am hurt'

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crowley had been in high spirits when they’d parted ways, exactly the kind of cheerful that tended to put him in the mood for mischief.

'i took time out of my busy schedule to try and curate a positive mobile telephonic experience for you and all i am met with in return is suspicion and disdain'

Aziraphale put the phone on silent and switched off the vibration. Crowley would insist on sending every sentence as a separate text, he knew.

'i took you in,' read the next text, 'and cared for you like a bird with a broken wing'

'as the capitoline wolf i sheltered you and nurtured you through times of darkness and of strife'

'from mine own breast i plucked my heart only to have you turn your face away'

He wandered into the back room to make a cup of tea, setting the phone down on his desk as he passed it. Crowley would entertain himself with increasingly hyperbolic laments for at least five minutes, if not more. He was absolutely wasted on Hell, Aziraphale mused, not for the first time. They'd never been particularly interested in wit or humour or, God forbid, imagination.

Not that Heaven was much better on that front, he conceded, adding milk. Crowley seemed to have found his niche on earth, among his clever, cunning humans, though even they seemed not to notice what a marvel Crowley could be. In 6,000 years Aziraphale had yet to meet anyone who seemed really able to appreciate Crowley as he deserved.

The thought left as quietly as it came, barely disturbing the surface of Aziraphale's mind. He pottered back to the desk with his tea in one hand, a biscuit in the other, and a second already in his mouth. He took a bite of biscuit and a slug of tea, and settled into his chair to survey the damage. He had seventeen messages - a little lax by Crowley's usual standards. He flicked through them, each more ridiculous and grandiose than the last.

‘i will, however, be accepting gestures of contrition at this time,’ read the last. Aziraphale laughed in spite of himself.

‘You can hardly blame me for being suspicious,’ he wrote back. ‘You have form.’

‘a fair form it is, and folds finely,’ came the reply, followed by a winky face.

It took a moment for the pun to land, based as it was on an Elizabethan euphemism. When it hit, a flush of fondness rose in Aziraphale’s chest.

‘You sound like Will. People don’t speak like that any more.’

‘they didn’t back then either,’ Crowley said. ‘will just cldnt resist sticking a dirty joke in wherever he could’

Aziraphale’s thumbs hesitated over the keys. Something about texting made him feel bolder than he might if the conversation were face to face. A smile twitched his lips.

‘He was keen on sticking all sorts of things wherever he could, as I recall.’  


Crowley’s response was immediate, a row of shock-faced emojis and a full line of exclamation marks. Aziraphale snorted - as if Crowley didn’t know exactly what Will and the other Chamberlain’s Men had got up to between performances. (And, on one notable occasion, during, though he was fairly sure Crowley didn’t know about that particular backstage incident.6 If he concentrated, Aziraphale could still remember the taste of second-hand vermilion.)

He snapped back to the present with a shiver. The conversation had got off track.

‘If they aren’t to send me endless notifications,’ he wrote, ‘then what are these applications for?’

‘srsly? have u even looked at them?’

Aziraphale frowned. He hadn’t, not really - he’d just seen they were there and instantly known who to blame. He tapped to his menu screen and pondered the icons scattered there. The names didn’t mean much to him - Skype, Medium, Indeed… Then, it clicked.

‘get it yet?’  


Aziraphale had never quite got the hang of doing as he was told, but he managed it this time. He opened his camera, fiddled about for a moment brushing biscuit crumbs off his jacket and finding an angle where the light hit him nicely[7] and snapped a picture.

‘ha! very nice,’ came the reply. ‘knew you’d get the message eventually’

Spelled out across his menu screen, app icons like letters cut from magazines in a sweet inversion of a ransom note, were the words, “Smile Angel!”

‘I’m surprised you didn’t write something ruder,’ Aziraphale wrote. ‘The temptation must have been enormous.’

‘not enough apps that begin with F. i do think you’ll actually like some of them - the crossword one is apparently very good’

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale out loud. “We’ll see about that.”

‘And the others?’ he wrote.

‘i promise, they’re just there to make up the words. i didn’t set them to do anything “““untoward””” u can delete them if u like’

Aziraphale thought. ‘That would ruin the message though.’

Crowley seemed to take his time answering. The little ellipses that told Aziraphale he was typing flashed up and away a handful of times before he replied. Aziraphale ate his other biscuit. Eventually, his phone flashed.

‘keep them then’

Aziraphale didn’t know how he was meant to read that. ‘I will,’ he wrote, and added a smiley face for good measure. He was still getting the hang of emojis, but he felt fairly confident a simple smile couldn’t be misinterpreted.

Crowley responded with an upside down smiling face, a face with no mouth, and what looked like a tiny flamenco dancer.

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale asked the empty shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Indeed, Crowley heard that particular lecture about once every six months, ever since he, in a rush of pride and an unusual failure to read his audience, informed Aziraphale of his latest invention: planned obsolescence. Crowley himself got a new mobile once every few years, though only for reasons of style. None of his phones ever broke. They wouldn't dare.
> 
> [2] He’d kept the stockings, though.
> 
> [3] He had been living in Soho for the last 200 years, after all.
> 
> [4] Though actually he quite enjoyed that one. Who knew, cats could be allergic to humans?
> 
> [5] Aziraphale loved selfies. He loved everything about them, from the endearing name to their potential for radically democratising the image of oneself and how that image is constructed, shared, and consumed. Crowley had not quite known what to say when Aziraphale, three glasses into a very fine New World white, had spoken at length on the matter, cheeks flushed and hands like birds about him as he gestured each point home. Crowley had watched with baffled and amused affection, made a quiet decision not to tell the angel about the concept’s infernal origin, and showed him how to use Snapchat filters. He hadn't seen Aziraphale laugh so hard since 1975. It was a good night.
> 
> [6] A phrase which quickly became William’s favourite euphemism for the act in question, even more so when he realised how much it embarrassed Aziraphale.
> 
> [7] Humility also not one of his strong suits.


	2. A Suggestion of Misbehaviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale updates his profile with a little help from his friends from Intimate Books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no particular content warning for this. but this chapter does introduce chelsea and teddy, two original characters who are doing what i know in other fics wld probably be done by character from GO, but i just cldnt get anyone to fit the vibe i wanted ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ hope u come to like them both as much as i do!

_October 2019_  


That had been two years and half an apocalypse ago. Aziraphale hadn't updated his phone, but he hadn't got rid of it either.[1] He had taken Crowley's advice - always a nerve-wracking prospect - and spent a little time exploring apps, starting with the ones Crowley had downloaded for him. He begrudgingly admitted that the crossword app in particular was rather excellent.

Most of the other apps Crowley had downloaded were clearly chosen, as he said, simply to make up the right letters. And one of them - the G in 'Angel' - he felt sure Crowley had chosen specifically because he imagined Aziraphale would be shocked or offended once he realised what it was.

For all his wiggling hips and painted-on jeans, Crowley really was a dreadful prude sometimes.

Aziraphale had loved the gay scene for years - a few thousand at least. He loved the decadence of bathhouses, the intimacy of bars and pubs, the frisson of subversion that made cruising so uniquely satisfying. But Grindr was something else entirely.

If he opened the app three nights in seven, he was likely not to meet anyone for a fortnight or more. He scrolled past profiles where a shopping list of preferred traits took the place of personality, or that simmered with blatant racism and barely-contained self-hatred. How a man could describe himself as "straight-acting" while literally seeking out other men with whom to have sex, he would never understand.  


Aziraphale had always made a point of only fucking[2] people with whom he felt a genuine connection, no matter how briefly the connection might last. Grindr made that more difficult, certainly. But occasionally he would meet someone on there and feel that spark, that potential for... not love, exactly, but something like it, something made of joy and vulnerability and shared pleasure. It was a difficult thing to describe, something both more and less than the ability to hold a conversation. He'd talked to men with whom he could chat and laugh and joke, but knew to go any further would be using them as a comfortable means to a selfish end. And there were others with whom he had nothing at all in common, but with whom he had made an authentic, mutual connection. It was a difficult line to see, let alone walk, but he managed.

He didn't go on Grindr often, preferring for the most part to meet his partners by more traditional means. But every few months he'd open it up and spend a little time exploring, chatting, perhaps meeting up if things seemed right. He didn't mention it to Crowley, though he'd have been hard pressed to explain exactly why not.

#  


A few months after the apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley went to spend a few days in Manchester on a particularly juicy temptation.[3] Neither of them had heard from their respective head offices since the business with the body swaps, but they'd both fallen quickly into the habits of several lifetimes and taken up what Aziraphale thought of as freelance work - a blessing here, a seduction there, more or less business as usual. It was nice to be able to get on with things however they preferred - though it had taken Aziraphale a few weeks to lose the impulse to submit a report after each divine intervention. Crowley certainly seemed to be relishing the chance to get up to mischief without having to explain his methods to an unappreciative audience.

They'd also been spending more time together since the world hadn't ended, finding their way through a friendship suddenly unburdened by fear. It was turning out to be rather lovely.

Unfortunately, the effect was that when Crowley was away, his absence weighed more heavily on Aziraphale than it ever used to. It astonished him how quickly he'd become used to Crowley's near-constant presence. Crowley spent most of his time these days in the shop, lounging in the back room pretending not to read, or getting underfoot as Aziraphale tried to work through some reshelving, or on more than one occasion falling asleep soaking in sunshine where it pooled in through the shop window.  


Aziraphale was not lonely without him - he had other friends, after all, and he'd spent plenty of time in the last 6,000 years enjoying his own company. But he noticed his absence, and a part of him deep, deep down struggled to settle until Crowley was home again.[4]

It was Thursday afternoon, an unbeguiling sort of day with watery sunlight barely struggling through the clouds. He'd been staring at the same clue on today's crossword for twenty minutes or more - 15 down, "Writer depicted old queen briefly imprisoned after revolution,” (4,6). Finally he gave up, threw down the paper and picked up his phone.

'When are you coming back?' he tapped out.

Crowley didn't take long to reply - he was rarely more than arm's reach away from his phone.

'missing me already, angel?' came the answer, followed by a rather sweet emoji with a halo and a tiny pair of wings.

'Not at all,' Aziraphale lied. It wouldn't do to stroke his ego. 'I wondered if you might like to go to the theatre when you get home.'

'to see what?'

'I hadn't looked yet. Thought I'd check what night you'd be free.'

'oh ok ill be back on sunday but probably a bit knackered tbh mondays good though?'

'Excellent. Monday it is. I'll have a look at what's on and you can take your pick.'

'cool xx'

Aziraphale smiled, and sent a sunglasses emoji. He could just picture Crowley's smile on seeing it - he was always delightfully taken aback when Aziraphale engaged in modern culture.

'ha! is that supposed to be me? sunglasses and everything'

'Hmm, not intentionally, but yes I can see some resemblance now you mention it. Though I think this one's more like you.'

'!!! that snake is green !!! and far too cute !!!'

'They don't have a black one! And besides, I think you are quite cute as a snake.'

'only as a snake?'

If Aziraphale's heart skipped a little on reading that, he chose to ignore it. 'Certainly. You can't speak for one thing. A marked improvement on your usual form, if you ask me.'

Aziraphale hadn't even known they made emojis of those particular gestures. Every day's a school day.

They chatted a little longer about nothing in particular. Too soon, Crowley had to say his goodbyes - the threads of his temptation were coming together, he said, and he needed to concentrate. Aziraphale put his phone down with a sigh. Then he picked it up again, and tapped into Grindr. He hadn't been on it since well before Armaggedon't and it was high time he updated his profile.

After five minutes, he gave up in disgust. He had scrolled through his feed looking for inspiration, trying to find the sort of thing he might like to put out there about himself. But the endless parade of perfect abs and filtered faces had only made him feel old. He needed reinforcements.

He left the shop, flipping the sign on the door to CLOSED and locking up with a click.

#

Intimate Books had not been open as long as A.Z. Fell & Co., but it was almost as much of a landmark in the area - albeit to a rather different crowd. It had long since branched out from erotic books and now boasted a variety of toys and trinkets of every kind in leather, silicone, even glass. It was a cheerful, well-lit place and the shop's latest owner, Teddy, ran it with a deep appreciation for the fundamental silliness of everything involved.

As soon as Aziraphale walked in, Teddy spotted him.

"Aziraphale! Welcome back! Got another one of our orders, did you?"

Aziraphale smiled and made his way to the counter to say a proper hello. "Not today, no. I was actually hoping you could help me with something."

Teddy stepped out from behind the counter and pulled Aziraphale into a warm, friendly hug.

"Mm, intriguing. Must be something naughty if you're coming over here for help."

Aziraphale laughed. "Hardly. Well, a little, perhaps... What are we calling you today, dear?"

"Them, please," Teddy said, tapping a stripey badge on their lapel with 'they/them/their' printed on it in rainbow letters. "I think I might stick with it this time. It's feeling really right."

"You feel like that every time you change your pronouns," Aziraphale pointed out. He kissed them fondly on the cheek. "Do whatever feels best, my dear. Change is the natural state of the universe, after all."

"Hmm, not yours though apparently - do you ever change your clothes? Or is it like a cartoon where you have row on row of the same outfit hanging up in your wardrobe?"

“I didn't come here to talk about my wardrobe."

"Oh my God, are we Queer Eye-ing Aziraphale?" came another voice from behind a rail of PVC uniforms.

A woman with a half-shaved head stepped out from where she'd been putting away stock, her piercings bristling. She set down an armful of nurses uniforms on the counter and held her arms out to Aziraphale.

"I don't even know what that means," he tutted, but he hugged her all the same.

"Oh, you'd love it! It's on Netflix."

"I don't have a Netflix."

"Eh, who does," shrugged Teddy. “I use my sister's.”

“I bet your young man has an account you can use,” teased Chelsea, waggling her eyebrows in a way that made the metal embedded there glint and glimmer.

“He isn't my young man – as you well know.”

“What's his name again?” said Teddy, grinning. “Tommy or Tony or something?”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale corrected, and regretted it as soon as he did.

“Oh, Anthony!” Chelsea said, dragging it out long and flirty.

“Anthony, baby!” joined in Teddy.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly. There was no point trying to make them stop – they'd only be spurred on by his annoyance. He'd known Teddy for six years, ever since they took over the shop from its previous owner, and Chelsea had arrived on the scene not long after. They were exactly the kind of people Aziraphale enjoyed most – funny, irreverent, and deeply, instinctively kind.

“If you're quite finished,” he said when they'd got through the worst of their giggles. “I did come here for some help, actually.”

“Yes, your mystery project,” said Teddy, wiggling their fingers with excitement. “What's up?”

“I need some help with my Grindr profile, if you must know.”

“You have a Grindr?” said Chelsea. She leant back on the counter, propping herself up on her elbows and crossing her legs at the ankles.

“He's old,” Teddy chastised, “he's not a complete mollusc.”

“A ringing endorsement. Perhaps I should write that on my profile.”

“He's not that old...”

“He's standing right here,” Aziraphale reminded them.

Teddy tilted their head, considering him. “What are you, like, 40? 45?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Something like that.”

“A lady never tells,” Chelsea said with a wink.

“Quite right. Are you going to help me or what?”

Teddy hopped up to sit on the counter beside Chelsea, crossing their legs prettily. “What's the problem?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don't have any photos that are getting across what I, well. What I want to get across.”

“OK,” said Teddy slowly. “Look, Aziraphale, I'm happy to help how I can, but I'm drawing the line at taking your nudes for you.”

“Oh for pity's sake- That's not what I meant!” Blood rushed to Aziraphale's cheeks.

“I just want to be clear where my boundaries are!” said Teddy, holding their hands up in defence. “You have a beautiful body but I don't care to see any more of it.”

“I could stand to see a little more,” said Chelsea. “What? You're lovely,” she said when Aziraphale fixed her with a Look. “Dad bods are very in right now.”

“Are they, indeed. You're very kind to offer, my dear, but that's really rather the opposite problem to the one I have. I'd like to have some photos of myself that aren't nudes, but that will still get people... You know. Interested.”

“But not face pics, I assume?” Teddy said. Aziraphale shook his head.

“No. Nothing, um. Identifying.”

“Hashtag discreet,” said Chelsea knowingly. “Very closet-chic.”

Aziraphale snorted. “My dear girl, I've never been in the closet and I don't intend to start now. It's not that. I just...” He trailed off, trying to find the words. “It's like a masquerade,” he said after a moment. “When you can't see each other's faces but you still manage to find each other, talk, make a connection.”

So many eyes flashing behind glittered masks, so many unvoiced invitations into quiet rooms and hidden corners to touch and press and play. Aziraphale smiled. It had been a long, long time since he had been to a masquerade.

Teddy looked unconvinced. “Yeah, alright.”

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued. “Everyone I see on Grindr who doesn't have a picture of their face has a picture of their naked torso instead. Or other naked parts. Which is very

nice for them, I'm sure, but not at all what I'm interested in.”

“But you still want to be sexy though, right?” Chelsea said.

Aziraphale blushed. “I mean, I wouldn't like to put quite so fine a point on it...”

“That's a yes then,” said Chelsea, grinning.

“Anonymous but not impersonal, erotic but not porny. I think we can manage that,” said Teddy cheerfully.

“What's your picture at the minute?” asked Chelsea. Aziraphale showed her. “Ah. And this... This works for you?”

“It has so far. Why, what's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Aren't people a little disappointed, though, when you show up and aren't, in fact, Oscar Wilde?”

“I've had no complaints so far.”

#

They made him take his clothes off in the end.

“Trust me,” Teddy reassured him as they undid his bow tie. “An open collar is going to do you a lot more favours than this fussy old thing.”

The jacket had gone too, and the waistcoat, and Teddy had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. Aziraphale didn't argue. He'd come to them for help, after all – what was the point of asking for advice and then refusing to take it? And, he had to admit as Teddy scrolled through the photos they'd taken, it had been worth it

They were sat beside Aziraphale on the sofa in the section of the shop still devoted to erotic fiction. Chelsea was on his other side, leaning in to see the photos as Teddy scrolled through them. It was a cosy squash with all three of them, Teddy's free hand resting easily on Aziraphale's knee and Chelsea's arm slung over the back of the sofa.

“This one's my favourite,” said Teddy.

“Oh, Aziraphale! You look incredible!” said Chelsea, leaning a little closer.

Aziraphale blushed. “Goodness me, my dear. That's quite something.”

It was a candid photo taken while Aziraphale had had his guard down. He was turning to talk to Chelsea and had his left hand raised to adjust the top button of his shirt. Teddy had cropped the image down so that it focused on the line of his neck running into the collar of his shirt, the flourish of hair licking at his clavicle, just enough of his mouth to carry a suggestion of misbehaviour. It was, he had to admit, rather appealing.

Teddy kept scrolling until Aziraphale stopped them, brought up short by another photo that caught his eye.

“Oh, my goodness, Teddy,” he breathed. “How did you...”

This second photo was of Aziraphale sat on the same sofa, zoomed in to show only his legs and the bottom half of his torso. Something about the way it was framed made the eye fall naturally to Aziraphale's hands where they lay, relaxed and casual on his thighs. He'd never really considered his hands before. They were soft, pale things that matched the rest of his soft, pale body. But there was something indefinably masculine about them here, the fingers looked strong and clever in a way that made him almost doubt they were his. He flexed his hands unconsciously.

“You're gorgeous,” said Teddy, looking at the photo with a proud smile. “I mean, in real life as well, obviously.”

Chelsea pressed a fond kiss to the top of Aziraphale's head. “Told you you were lovely,” she said, smiling.

Aziraphale flushed. “Thank you, my dear. My dears,” he corrected, nudging them both with his shoulders in turn. “You've outdone yourselves.”

He added the photos to his profile and updated his bio, again with Chelsea and Teddy's help. Then he hugged them each goodbye, promised to catch up with them properly

soon - “And bring your young man!”

After the bright, bouncing energy of Teddy and Chelsea, Aziraphale was looking forwards to some peace. But the shop felt more than peaceful, more than sleeping. He stood for a moment with his back against the door. The air was utterly still. He fancied he could hear the dust settling on the shelves. The space between the bookcases yawned, the clutter and chaos of the shop floor doing nothing to mitigate against the abject emptiness that rang round the room. And upstairs, the flat lay just as still, just as silent, its air unmoved since he last moved it. For the first time in a very long time, Aziraphale found himself reluctant to be at home.  


In a flourish of determined energy, he marched himself across the floor to where his sturdy old gramophone sat on a finely carved end table of its own. A few moments rummaging through his stack of records, haphazardly kept in a pile beneath the table despite Crowley's repeated exhortations that he store them properly,[5] and finally the shop was filled with the tripping, trilling overture of Armide by Jean-Baptiste Lully. Aziraphale hummed along as best he could, letting himself be taken away with the music. By the time the prologue was in full swing, his heart had settled a little. It had been a strange, silly moment - nothing to dwell on. In the spirit of not dwelling, he took his phone out of his pocket and tapped out a quick message to Crowley.

'Did you ever meet Lully?'

The reply came less than a minute later.

'flouncy french twit, leg rotted off bc he hit it with a stick or something?'

Aziraphale smiled, the knot of unease loosening in his chest. 'That's the chap. Dreadfully good dancer.'

'not with a rotten leg he wasn't. never met him in person, i was mostly in ireland around then i think. why?'

Aziraphale knocked the volume down a touch and wandered to the sofa. 'No reason,' he wrote. 'You'd have hated him, actually, though he was rather fun in a sort of unbearable way.'

'hmm i think i know what you mean. byron was a bit like that. great fun at parties, absolutely insufferable in all other contexts'

Aziraphale laughed, too rapt to notice if it rang strangely in the empty shop. 'Exactly!'

'see also: every australian'

"Oh you're too bad," Aziraphale chastised aloud, smiling as he said it.

He snuggled deeper into the sofa cushions and started composing his reply, unease forgotten. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be so dismal after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]Though he did manage to thoroughly and inexplicably lose it for the one week that century that having a direct line to Crowley might have been really helpful. Infuriating, how that happens sometimes. He'd been so upset he'd been unable to even reference owning a mobile until he found it again.
> 
> [2] If one was prepared to commit the act, Aziraphale felt, one ought to be willing to name it for what it was.
> 
> [3] Not that anyone in that blasted city needed much tempting, in Aziraphale's opinion. Even Sodom had only had a couple of badly behaved decades - Manchester had seven centuries under its belt.
> 
> [4] He did not look too closely at that little word, "home". It seemed to him a deceptively dangerous word that might reveal all manner of unhelpful things if he lifted it up to see what lurked beneath.
> 
> [5] Not that the records ever warped or scratched, since Aziraphale never expected them to.


	3. Scratching an Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we earn our E rating as Aziraphale strikes up an acquaintance with the mysterious Gen...... (yes I know we all know where this """"mystery"""" is going but dramatic irony is a beautiful thing xD)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for: dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, and sharing photos of oneself masturbating.

Friday and Saturday came and went in an indifferent blur. On Sundays, the bookshop stayed closed. This was less out of commitment to religious observance and more out of Aziraphale's commitment to long breakfasts over the Sunday papers followed by a stroll around the park. He could stroll any day of the week, of course, but Sundays felt different.

He let his feet find their own way, his mind drifting clear and thoughtless. Eventually he realised he'd reached Hyde Park – as good a place as any, he supposed.

The air was bright and autumnal and the promise of brisk mornings and wet leaves caught at the edge of his senses. The weather had turned enough that he had swapped his thin summer coat for a dark camel overcoat, thick and woollen to see him through the winter. He had his scarf as well, tartan lambswool that bundled softly around his neck. He breathed deeply, tasting the turn of the season on the tip of his tongue. He walked at an easy pace towards the Serpentine and found a bench to sit on to watch the ducks and the paddle boats describing aimless shapes on the surface of the water.

In his inside pocket, his phone buzzed. He fumbled it out, and was disappointed to see it was just a notification from Grindr. Well. Crowley had said he'd be tired today, after all, and Aziraphale would see him tomorrow to go to the theatre. Resigned, Aziraphale opened the app to see what he'd been sent.  


His inbox had a cluster of notifications, most not worth paying any attention.[1] There were a couple of hopeful prospects – not too young, their opening salvos not too aggressive. He was all for forthrightness when it came to sex, but a 'hello, how are you' was hardly too much to ask. He tapped into a few profiles, and eventually whittled it down to three men he'd be interested in responding to.

The first was a charming-sounding Italian, 43, who described himself as “a sunny boy”, which made Aziraphale smile. He had his doubts about 'Fat 8”er, 55' but something about his salt and pepper beard and the twinkle in his eye caught Aziraphale's attention. Besides, there was no harm in messaging him back.

The third person he replied to was the enigmatically named 'Gen3', age 48. Aziraphale didn't think too much about the name – probably a pop culture reference – but he was immediately taken with the first, and only, photo on the profile. It was strangely parallel to his own in that it showed a hand lifted to the collar-bone. But where Aziraphale's picture was simple and candid, this was a flourish of carefully composed decadence.

The man wore an ornate, finely worked piece of jewellery that wrapped around his wrist and fingers to fall in a cascade of light down across the back of his hand. It reminded Aziraphale of the jewellery worn sometimes by brides in Indian weddings, silver and intricate. The hand itself was slim, fine-boned, brushed with dark hair along its back and down the slice of forearm included in the picture.

He was wearing some kind of robe, Aziraphale thought, or something that draped over his shoulders. It was falling open around him in a way that seemed artfully composed to look as natural as possible. The man's torso was turned towards the camera, his head tilted back so that only the bottom of his jaw showed. His neck was long and fine and full of promise, but Aziraphale found himself staring instead at the sharp jut of his collar-bone where the fingers draped across it. The whole pose was dramatic, contrived, skirting on the edge of 'too much'. Aziraphale was transfixed.

'That piece of jewellery is very beautiful,' he typed. 'The way it catches the light is lovely.'

It wasn't quite what he wanted to say, but he couldn't imagine how he might express what else the photo made him feel. He had barely put his phone back in his pocket when it buzzed.

'thanks! will i sound like an absolute wanker if i say i got it when i was in india?'

It seemed this young man had the same disdain for proper punctuation that Crowley always exhibited in his texts. Quite how capital letters had managed to offend everyone so badly, Aziraphale didn’t know. But language was a beautifully changeable beast, and provided scriptio continua didn’t make a comeback, he saw no reason to grumble.

'Why would that make you a wanker?'

'oh, you know – like those people who use photos of them posing with drugged up tigers at some tourist zoo to make themselves seem interesting'

The sentence ended with a rolling-eyes emoji, and Aziraphale felt a twinge of guilt even as he laughed.

'Yes, I do see what you mean,' he wrote. 'I suppose it depends – did you spend a few months backpacking on your gap year and trying to “find yourself”?' He hazarded a winky face.

'not bloody likely. i can't think of anything id less like to find on a holiday tbh'  


Aziraphale only hesitated over the acronym for a second – Crowley had introduced him to all sorts of creative short-hands, though he still wasn't convinced he'd been entirely honest about some of them.[2]

'Then I think you're in the clear. Were you just over for a holiday?'

'no, i was working. it was brilliant though. have u ever been?'

Aziraphale smiled, remembering the sweet slick of mango kulfi, licked from his fingers where it had dripped, melting in the hot sun.

'Not for a very long time,' he wrote. 'I kept meaning to go back but never quite got myself organised.'

'i hear you. i travelled a lot when i was younger, went all over the place. seem to have settled down a bit now. suppose that's the price of getting old!'

Aziraphale tutted. Humans had such strange ideas about age, even if you weren't comparing them to ethereal creatures from before the dawn of time. He asked about Gen's favourite travel destinations, and was surprised at how comprehensive his answer was. There were very few places Aziraphale could think of that Gen hadn't visited at some time or another, and fewer still that Aziraphale himself hadn't also been to.

They chatted for a while longer, the conversation flowing easily between them. Aziraphale's fingers were just starting to get uncomfortably cold after being out in the autumn air so long when Gen sent him an apology.

'look,' it said, 'im really enjoying this but i have to head on here. id like to chat again though if youre interested?'

Aziraphale didn't take long to decide. 'Yes, I'd like that a lot,' he replied. 'Have a good day and I'll talk to you again soon.'

'great! see u later xx'

'See you,' Aziraphale tapped out, his thumb hesitating before he hit send.

He looked at his phone, a smile just hinting at his lips. He wouldn't like to put too much store by what had been, after all, a single conversation and a fairly brief one at that. But he had a good gut feeling about Gen. It would be interesting to see how things unfolded between them.

Suddenly, a voice behind him rang out, making him jump.

“You're a bit off the beaten path, aren't you?”

Aziraphale's face lit up. He twisted around to see Crowley, swaggering across the grass. “Oh, Crowley! What a nice surprise!”

He resisted the urge to leap to his feet, though he couldn't help a pleased little wriggle running through him as Crowley threw himself down onto the bench beside him. Crowley grinned.

“Hey, angel,” he said, his voice warm and fond. “Not one of your usual haunts.”

“No, I had a bit of a wander,” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, gosh, it's so good to see you!”

If Aziraphale hadn't known better, he'd have sworn Crowley's cheeks were growing pink.

“Yeah, alright,” he said, shrugging even as his own answering smile forced its way out across his face. “Just a coincidence. No need to get excited.”

There was no malice in his voice, though, and when he sprawled his legs out in front of him Aziraphale couldn't help noticing how Crowley leaned slightly towards him, as if pulled by a gravitational field. Aziraphale shifted position, just barely moving closer to Crowley. There was still a good six inches of space between them on the bench but it wasn't an impulse he could ignore.

“No such thing as coincidence, my dear. How was your temptation? Everything come together in the end?”

“Oh, angel, you should have seen it!” Crowley moved his hands through the air, describing complex, weaving shapes. “All these lines of influence, days in the making, all coming together to get this one guy to-” He stopped short, shooting a look at Aziraphale. “Well, no need to go into details,” he said, his smile flashing wicked in the sunlight.

“Yes, better not,” Aziraphale said, fondness softening his disapproval. “The less I know, the better. This way I don't have to worry about whatever awful things you've set in motion.”

“Oh, I wouldn't call them 'awful',” Crowley objected. “Just a bit... nefarious. Alright, quite a lot nefarious,” he added when he caught Aziraphale's eye. His smile broke out broad and genuine, sparkling with excited pride. “It was a thing of beauty, honestly. The repercussions it'll have... And best of all, I don't have to explain it to anyone! No reports, no trying to get those blockheads downstairs to understand why it was worthwhile – I can just do it for the hell of it! So to speak.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you this happy in your work.”

“Oh, I don't know – that stuff with the emus back in '32 has to be up there. How was your weekend, anyway?”  


Aziraphale kept his answer vague, not wanting to give Crowley the impression that he had nothing better to do in Crowley's absence than mope about the shop. The conversation spun out in an easy tangle, tangents picked up and set down at their leisure. Eventually, inevitably, the sun started downwards and a definite chill came into the air.

“Shall we get some dinner, do you think?” said Crowley. “Save our arses from suffering this bloody bench any longer?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Aren't you worn out? I don't want to impose.”

Crowley waved the protest away with a flick of his wrist. “Don't be ridiculous. Come on, there's a this veggie place in Marylebone I read about online. I've been meaning to take you for ages, you'll love it.”  


They found their way to the restaurant despite Aziraphale's misgivings.[3] Sure enough, by the time they'd reached the sticky dessert stage of the evening, Aziraphale was humming with contentment. He chased the last of Crowley's peanut butter brownie around the plate with his spoon and let his eyes flicker shut at the taste.

“Oh, that was divine,” he sighed. He gestured towards his own plate of tiramisu. “Please, do help yourself.”

Crowley smiled at him over his espresso, a soft, indulgent thing that set things fluttering in Aziraphale's chest. In the low light of the restaurant, Crowley's hard edges softened and blurred, his hair catching the light wonderfully. “Don't worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”  


Crowley leant forwards and pushed the dessert a little closer to Aziraphale. “Fill your boots,” he insisted. Aziraphale took a sip of port.[4]

“I'm already quite full,” he said slowly, not as uncertain as he sounded. It was a game, he knew, but one he loved to play. There, right on cue – that same indulgent smile.

“Go on, angel. Treat yourself,” Crowley fairly purred. He rested his elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand, looking at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. “Everyone knows tiramisu goes into a different stomach,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“Mm, well-known biological fact,” said Crowley. He counted off on his long fingers as he listed. “First there's the savoury stomach – yours currently filled nicely with courgette flowers and aubergine teriyaki. Then there's the dessert stomach.” He gestured to the scraped-clean brownie plate. “And then the third and final tiramisu stomach, which in your case is sitting sadly bereft. It would be positively neglectful of you to ignore it.”

“And what about your three stomachs? They must be nearly atrophied, poor things, never seeing anything but red wine, dark chocolate and coffee.”

“Ah, well, demons are a bit different, you see. We only have the two – one for alcohol, the other for caffeine. The chocolate passes through undigested.”

Aziraphale's laughter broke out from him in a happy, undignified snort. “Oh, you're ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head and pulling the tiramisu towards him. “Technically this would count as caffeine,” he pointed out, gesturing with his spoon.

Crowley didn't deign to respond. He sat back and watched Aziraphale eat, content in a job well done. It was hardly a difficult temptation to accomplish, but he'd never missed an opportunity for it yet. Focused as he was on his dessert, Aziraphale didn't see the look on Crowley's face as he watched him eat. He missed entirely the blooming, blossoming fondness, the warm smile that stole over Crowley's sharp features as he watched. He missed as well the slow recollection of self, the slip of that same smile. By the time Aziraphale looked up again, it was gone, no trace of it left behind. Aziraphale dabbed at his lips with his napkin.

“Scrumptious,” he said approvingly. “Shall we go to the bookshop, have a nightcap?”

The pause before Crowley spoke was just a fraction too long. “No,” he said, then cleared his throat, tried again. “No, sorry. I, um. I should be getting home.”

“Oh. Oh, dear boy, you look absolutely done in.” Aziraphale's face crinkled in concern. “You said you'd be tired, I'm so sorry. I've kept you far too long.”

Crowley held up a hand. “It's fine, Aziraphale. Really. Really,” he insisted, smiling in a way that was only convincing if you were particularly determined to be convinced.

Aziraphale eyed it doubtfully.

“Well. If you insist. But do let me pay, won't you? It's the least I can do.”

“You know, as gestures go, someone with infinite resources offering to pay for dinner might not be quite the show of contrition you think it is.”

“It's symbolic. Like your driving me home when we both know I could just miracle myself there,” he said, smiling at a waiter across the room and miming signing a cheque.

“That'll be you asking for a lift, then.”

“Oh, would you? So kind of you to offer.”

Crowley laughed in earnest, despite himself. He shook his head. “You're outrageous.”

Aziraphale beamed, a warm glow filling his chest as he took in the sincerity of Crowley's smile. “Only a little,” he said.

The cheque came, and then all too soon was the short drive back to Soho and a wave goodnight from the shop door. The Bentley's engine growled as it pulled away and Aziraphale smiled to hear it, almost as familiar a companion as its driver.

He went about his usual evening routine, eventually settling down into bed with a cup of tea and a good book, and trying to reason with the part of himself still mourning Crowley's early departure. Aziraphale could see for himself how tired Crowley had been at the restaurant – even with his sunglasses on, there was a tension around his mouth, the tightness in his shoulders so different to his usual louche sprawl. Besides, Aziraphale told himself, this evening had been a happy accident, more than he had expected. And he would see Crowley again tomorrow. He had no reason at all to be restless, no reason for the itch of disappointment in his stomach.

He tried to concentrate on his novel. But he struggled to submerge himself in the story, his mind wandering forever from the plot and lighting on strangely shaped thoughts he struggled to name. When his phone buzzed, he picked it up with a surge of relief rather than the usual flash of irritation he felt when his reading was interrupted.

He tapped open the notification and raised his eyebrows. It was Gen.

'hey, idk if youre still up but thought id drop you a line just in case'

Aziraphale made a little sound of surprise. He hadn't been expecting to hear from Gen again until tomorrow at the earliest. Not that he minded.

'I'm still awake,' he texted back with a smiley face. 'How are you?'

'im good. did you have a good evening?'

'Yes, thanks. You?'

Aziraphale cringed. Hardly the most sparkling exchange. Too much more of this and Gen would write him off as a terrible bore and not worth the effort. Gen took a moment to answer, floating ellipses telling Aziraphale he was typing for quite a time before the message came through.

'yeah, fine, thanks. listen, i wanted to ask you something but im not sure how to phrase it'

'Ask away,' Aziraphale answered, forehead creasing. This wasn't quite where he thought the conversation was going to go.

'i was just wondering, what are you on here for? i mean, what are you looking for?'

Aziraphale laughed with relief. 'Is that all? You made it sound like you were going to ask me whether I'd mind you bringing your mother on a date with you.'

'ha! sorry, didn't mean to sound so dramatic!'

'It's quite alright. A very reasonable thing to want to know, make sure we're on the same page.'

'yeah that was what i was thinking. only sometimes people can be weird about it idk like youre jumping the gun or trying to get them to commit to something when youve only just started talking'

Aziraphale knew what he meant. People could be strange about that sort of thing. 'Personally, I much prefer the straightforward approach.'

'cool,' wrote Gen, with a grinning emoji.

'To answer your question, I'm not looking for anything in particular. Although,' he added after a moment's thought, 'I'm not looking for a relationship.' Best to cut that possibility off from the start. He had no intention of falling in love, or being fallen in love with. It could only possibly end in heartbreak. 'As long as we're clear about that, I'm happy to chat and see what we both want.'

There was a pause before Gen started typing again. The ellipses flashed and disappeared a number of times before he responded simply, 'ok'

Aziraphale frowned at his phone. Had he misread? He hadn't thought he'd been rude, but it was hard to tell in a medium like texting. 'Sorry, have I misunderstood? Or said something wrong?'

Gen rushed to answer. 'no! no youre fine. its just my own stuff, thats all'

'Oh. Is it because you were looking for something more serious? I'm sorry, I'm just not interested.'

'omg honestly, no! thats fine, its all fine. if anything it was the other way around haha,' read Gen's next text, followed by two crying-with-laughter emojis. Aziraphale didn't quite get the joke.

'The other way around?' he wrote.

'yeah,' said Gen. 'um. this is a bit awkward but... i was kind of hoping you'd be up to chat?'

Aziraphale's frown didn't budge. 'Sorry, you've lost me. I thought we were chatting?'

'no, i mean like... like chat chat. like, sexting'

Aziraphale was about to reply when Gen sent a second message.

'im not looking for anything serious either, things are a bit weird for me on that front tbh. im not even sure how i feel about meeting. but I like you, and i wondered if we might have a bit of fun, you know?'

Understanding dawned in Aziraphale. It never ceased to amaze him how coy humans could be around sex sometimes.

'And you texted tonight because you've got an itch and thought I might help scratch it?'

'well... wld u?'

Aziraphale smiled. 'I could be convinced,' he wrote, snuggling down the pillows. He felt a flicker of arousal, just a spark but full of promise. 'Can we clarify some things first though?'

'ofc what's up?'

'You said you're not sure how you feel about meeting up. That's fine, we can keep things online. Does that mean you'd like to stay anonymous as well?'

'is that alright?'

'Yes, absolutely. In fact it brings me nicely to my next question – how do you feel about sharing pictures?'

Even typing out the question made Aziraphale's stomach flutter. Sharing photos of himself with his lovers had for him the same delicious sense of transgression as anonymous sex or sex in public – the sense of wrongdoing even when the circumstances were entirely safe. He chewed his lip as he waited for Gen's answer, hoping that this era's obsession with the self-portrait was in his favour. When the answer came, he thrilled with excitement.

'that sounds pretty hot tbh no face pics but anything else is alright by me'

Aziraphale smiled, feeling another warm rush of arousal. He wasn't hard – but he knew he wouldn't take much convincing. 'Good to know! In that case, shall we get started?'

'wow you don't beat around the bush do u haha!'

'Sorry, should I lead into it more? Tell you what I'm wearing?'

'i can't tell if youre making fun of me lol but yeah that seems like a good place to start. what are u wearing?'

'Nothing.'

Gen responded with a string of emojis, alternately blushing and rolling their eyes. 'walked into that one i suppose! im just in t-shirt and boxers in bed'

'I'm in bed too. If I were with you, where should I start? Where do you like to be touched?'

Aziraphale watched the pulsing ellipses, waiting for the answer. 'my neck,' Gen wrote. 'i like having my neck touched. kissed.'

'It's very kissable,' Aziraphale answered. 'It was one of the things that attracted me to you.'

His cock stirred, he swallowed, the picture of Gen's long, elegant throat clear in his mind.

'i want to feel your mouth on me,' Gen wrote. 'feel your breath on my skin'

'I'd like that – as soon as I saw you I wanted to drag my lips down your neck, kissing, licking, my tongue hot against you.'

'would you bite me?'

'Do you want me to?'

'fuck yes'

'Then I'll bite you, darling, just as hard as you want. Hard enough to leave a mark. Press my teeth into your lovely skin, make you gasp.'

The thought was delightful. He closed his eyes for a moment and let himself dip into the memories of other lovers, their bodies hot and hard beneath his hands, the sounds he'd elicited from them. He could feel the ghosts of them on him now, recalling the feel of hands in his hair, the sound of panting in his ear as he fucked, alive and powerful. He brought one hand to the inside of his thigh, gently drawing it up over the sensitive skin, the sensation bright and focused. His phone buzzed.

'god, youre really good at this. im already hard'

Aziraphale felt a flush of gratification. 'Good,' he wrote, one handed, still stroking his thigh, working his way up. His own cock wasn't quite hard yet, just twitching with burgeoning desire. But he was in no hurry. 'I want to know what you like. Do you like having your nipples played with?'

'im touching them now'

Now there was a thought. He wondered if Gen had licked his fingers before bringing them to his chest, if he'd sucked them wet and slick before starting to touch himself.

'Good,' he type. 'I'd like to kiss down your neck and over your chest, wrap my lips around your nipples and suck. I want to flick my tongue over them, licking them until they're hard.'

'suck them please, i want u to suck them'

'Yes, darling, first one, then the other. Would you like me to bite them too? Press them between my teeth, make you hiss and gasp with pleasure.'

'fuck me yes i want that. what are you doing? are you touching yourself?'

'Not yet.'

'can you? i want you to. i want you to touch yourself and think of me'

Aziraphale wasn't going to argue. He took his cock in his hand and squeezed, groaning quietly at the sensation. He moved his fist slowly, concentrating on the delicious pressure moving up and down his shaft.

His breath was quick in his throat as he wrote, 'Can I see?'

A pause. Then, 'swap?'

Aziraphale didn't need telling twice. He kicked off his bedclothes and thumbed through to his camera. The lighting in his room was mercifully soft, and he tilted the bedside lamp a little to do himself some more favours. Then he took his cock in his left hand, his phone in the right, and took a photo from a side angle, including a generous swathe of his naked thigh.

He checked the result. Not bad, if he said so himself. His prick was thick and heavy, not over long but in proportion with his body. The tip was pink and just barely glistening with precum. His legs looked soft, brushed with white hair, and the plump roundness of his belly just hinted at near the edge of the frame.  


When he went back into Grindr, Gen's offering was waiting for him.

'Oh you're gorgeous,' he wrote before he could think better of it. 'You look wonderful.'

Gen's photo was wider even than Aziraphale's, taking in his hips, thighs, part of his stomach. He was laid out on a bed with dark sheets, a dramatic touch that didn't surprise Aziraphale at all given Gen's profile picture. The sheets contrasted wonderfully with Gen's pale skin, making him stand out like he was under a spotlight.

He was skinnier than Aziraphale would have gone for if he'd seen him in the street, but the smart jut of his hip-bones was irresistible. A trail of hair ran from his navel to his crotch in a line the Aziraphale's tongue twitched to follow. His boxers were pulled down but still wrapped around his thighs. The sight of them gave the picture a feeling of urgency – as if Gen couldn't even wait to undress fully before he had to show himself off for Aziraphale.

He wasn't holding himself, as Aziraphale had. Instead, his free hand lay across his thigh, long fingers digging in to the spare flesh. His cock was long, not as thick as Aziraphale's but still satisfyingly heavy. It curved slightly to the left, flushed red with want. Aziraphale's hand moved faster over himself as he looked at the photo, imagining how Gen's prick would feel in his hand, his mouth, dragging over his lips and tongue.

'your turn,' said Gen.

Aziraphale sent his picture and his stomach tightened with simultaneous thrill and terror. His hips twitched, a line of sweat bristling on his upper lip.

'fuck me,' came Gen's reply. 'god your dick looks good. i want to suck it, its so fucking thick'

Aziraphale's head knocked back and he groaned with pleasure. 'Suck me, darling, show me how well you can take my cock,' he wrote, hardly able to type. 'I want your lips wrapped round me, want to feel the heat of you, how wet and desperate you are for me. Would you do that for me?'

'yes fuck down on my knees in front of you, pull my hair as you fuck my face. i want to be good for you, make you come'

Aziraphale's teeth pressed against his lower lip, biting back a moan. He wished he knew what Gen's face looked like, wanted to complete the picture in his head, wanted to know the colour of the hair he'd hold in his fist as he took his pleasure. And there was a thought – taking his pleasure, taking hold of Gen and using him as much as Gen would let him. His dominant streak bristled with pleasure at the thought, he swallowed hard and made himself concentrate on typing.

'I wish I could hear the sounds you'd make, see how far down your throat you can take me.'

Gen's reply came fast, not a text but a photo. It was close and blurred with the haste it had been taken with, but that only added to Aziraphale arousal – the thought that Gen was as lost in the fantasy as he was, too far gone to bother carefully composing himself for a photo. The picture was of Gen's mouth, two fingers thrust into it, lips red and wet and puffy with use. Saliva shone on Gen's knuckles and chin, just the barest flash of teeth visible at the edge of his lips. Aziraphale bit back a moan. He spat into his palm and brought the wetness to his cock, slick and dripping as it already was with his own precum.

“Oh God,” he groaned aloud, his cock making wet, slick sounds as he fucked his fist. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation, imagining the delicious, wet heat of Gen's mouth.

'I want to come in your mouth,' he managed. 'I want to come all over those gorgeous lips and watch you swallow it, watch you lick me clean'

'shit i think im going to come'

'Come for me, darling, I want to see'

For a moment, Gen said nothing. Then he replied with a photo that made Aziraphale’s fist move faster than ever. The tip of Gen's cock was still dripping, the evidence of his orgasm sprayed across his belly. It would have been enough for Aziraphale, but another photo followed hot on its heels – Gen's fingers, raised to his lips once more, the unmistakable shine of come dripping from their tips, tongue poised to lick them clean. Aziraphale's orgasm barrelled through him at the sight. He arched his back on the mattress, groaning with relief, losing himself in the filthy pleasure of come spurting over his cock and stomach.

It took a minute or so to come back to himself. He opened his eyes, awareness slowly returning. Then he snapped a photo and sent it to Gen before he could think twice.

'fuck,' Gen answered. Then, 'sorry, brains fried. u look hot'

Aziraphale huffed a laugh, tried to wrangle his thoughts into something like coherency. They refused. 'I don't think I can make sentences,' he wrote at last.

'me neither lol had fun though'

'Me too. Did it scratch that itch of yours?'

'oh god yeah'

'Mm, good to know.'

For a moment Aziraphale let himself lie there, sleepy and unconcerned. The flat was quiet. He could hear a car alarm, too far away to be bothering him. He yawned, picked up his phone.

'I'm going to go to bed,' he wrote, 'But I'd like to talk to you again if you're up for it?'

'sounds great. sleep well'

'You too'

He was about to turn off the phone and roll over when the blue ellipses popped up again. He waited, wondering what else there was to say.

'btw – youre incredibly hot'

Warmth bloomed in Aziraphale's chest. 'Same to you,' he wrote, smiling. 'Goodnight xx'

'night xx'

A click of his fingers and the mess he'd made over himself was gone, replaced by a set of tartan pyjamas. He pulled the duvet up and stretched luxuriously, a noise of sleepy happiness squeezing out of him. Then he fell still against the pillows, toes wriggling with pleasure, and closed his eyes. The car alarm stopped. Presumably there was a world outside, but Aziraphale cared nothing for it right now. There could be a second apocalypse for all he cared – the kraken itself could rise in Trafalgar Square, and Aziraphale would let it. Under no circumstances was doing anything at all for the next five hours at least. If nothing else, he was pretty sure it would take that long for his legs to start working again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He wished Blo N Go the best of luck in his endeavours and hoped he found the 'anon fun' he was looking for, but would have to politely but firmly decline his invitation to 'let urself in & find me blindfolded, ass in air n ready for anything'. He sent a general blessing of safekeeping in the young man's direction though, just in case.
> 
> [2] Most notably, “Bring The Wine”, “Where's The Franzbrötchen?” and “I Demand Gateaux, And Fast!”
> 
> [3] “I know it's vegetarian, angel, but trust me, tofu's come a long way in the last few years...”
> 
> [4] The waiter had recommended that it would pair well with both desserts and really, who was he to argue?


	4. Old, Soft and Horrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley got to the theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not going to lie to you, my guys, this is the most ridiculously self-indulgent chapter apart from maybe the next chapter lol
> 
> the only things i can think to warn about are lots of food mentions and eating, and alcohol consumption, but all of it well within the bounds of canon-typical behaviour.
> 
> also, shout out to marty, the guy i worked with in a toy shop for two years who was literally the worst. fuck you, marty. hope you get shit on by a bird.

It had been a stuffy, over-crowded kind of day. A steady stream of people insisted on coming into the bookshop, ducking out of the autumnal air and into the shop's warmth. The addition of their body heat, and the noise of them, and the demands they made on Aziraphale's time and attention left him flushed and bothered. He'd quite reached the end of his patience by the time he shut and locked the front door, flipping the sign emphatically to CLOSED.

He should really have started his close-of-day routine, but frankly he couldn't find the motivation. Instead, with the last dregs of energy he had at his disposal, he made himself a cup of tea the size of a small swimming pool and slumped into the sofa behind the till to recuperate. The first sip was transformative, heat and calm billowing through him.

He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. Crowley would be over in an hour or so to pick him up before they went to the theatre. Plenty of time for him to recharge.  


He hadn't had chance to look at his phone all day, busy as he was. It was strange how quickly it had become a habit. He wasn't nearly as bad as Crowley – the demon was utterly beholden to his mobile, jumping at every beep and buzz.[1] Aziraphale might not be that dependent on his phone, but he was certainly aware of the length of time since he last checked his messages. He took another drink and fished the phone out of his pocket one-handed, careful not to spill his tea.

He was right – he hadn't missed much. Crowley had sent him a text confirming his ETA for the evening, followed by a blurry selfie in Crowley's preferred style – under the chin, pretending to be candid, preferably with just enough background to raise more questions than they answered. Today's offering looked like it had been taken in a supermarket, and Aziraphale was sure he could see Christmas decorations.

“It's _October_ ,” he whispered, appalled.

He fired off a text confirming the time and resolutely not asking Crowley to explain himself. It only encouraged him. Instead, he tapped into Grindr and sent Gen a message.

'Good evening,' he started, then paused, not quite sure how to continue. He chewed his lip, and then slowly started to write. 'I enjoyed myself very much last night. I hope you did too.'

He didn't have to wait long for a reply. 'yeah it was fun! hows your day been?'

Well, that was a nice surprise. He wasn't sure if Gen would be interested in continuing to talk – some men preferred a one-and-done approach to this kind of thing. Aziraphale didn't begrudge them their preferences, but it seemed dreadfully wasteful.

'I'm glad to hear it,' he wrote. 'My day was busy, and yet somehow still deeply boring. Yours?'

'aw, shit one, sorry to hear that. mine's been great – been in a brilliant mood all day, for some reason...'

'Hmm, I wonder what could have caused that...!'

'a mystery! though im more than willing to continue researching the issue'

'Your commitment to the cause is noble.'

'anything for science!' came the answer, followed by a winky face.

Aziraphale could feel himself cheering up already. 'Do you have any plans for the evening?'

'yeah, im going to see a play with a friend of mine. gonna have to go and get ready soon, actually. hbu?'

A flutter of excitement shivered through Aziraphale's chest. It was always lovely to find common ground between himself and his lovers. He was all for anonymous encounters but a little knowledge of the other person's life added a pleasant depth to the experience, like salt in a stew.

'How wonderful!' he wrote back. 'There's nothing quite like live theatre, is there? What are you going to see?'

'some new thing at the national,' Gen replied.

Aziraphale bolted upright, fingers stumbling over themselves in his hurry. 'I'm going to the National tonight too!'

'no way???'

'Yes, it's the new Annie Barker isn't it?'

'thats the one! fuck, what a coincidence haha!'

Aziraphale laughed, giddy with the surprise. Then, all at once, doubt crashed into him. 'Oh, but you wanted to stay anonymous! Should one of us cancel?'

He hoped Crowley wouldn't mind too terribly – he'd picked the show, but suppose Aziraphale told him something had come up, though what on earth he could invent that would satisfy Crowley's curiosity...

'how big is the national?' asked Gen after a moment's pause.

Aziraphale's eyebrows came together in a worried wrinkle. He bit his lip, trying to remember. 'I'm not sure. They have a few different theatres, don't they? I can't remember which one the show is in tonight though.'

Gen replied with a row of laughing emojis, each sporting a blue drop of sweat on their foreheads. What could possibly be so funny?

Then it dawned. Caught between embarrassment and amusement, he pinched the bridge of his nose, half laughing, half sighing. It had been a long day.

'unless ur planning to wear a t-shirt with last nights photos printed on,' read Gen's next message, 'i think we'll manage to maintain our air of mystery'

'I promise, I'm not usually this dense,' Aziraphale wrote back, flushing slightly at his foolishness – and at the reminder of the photographs they'd shared.

'we all have our moments lol look, ive got to shoot on here, but have a good night! who knows, maybe we'll bump into each other'

'How would we know if we did?'

'ill be the devilishly handsome one lol ttyl! xx'

#

“Well that was a pile of shite!”

The declaration came from a red-faced man in a tailored suit, and was apparently directed at the put-upon woman with goddess braids stood beside him at the bar. The foyer jostled with people leaving the show and picking up coats and bags from the cloakroom. The bar was tucked away at the back of the room but the man was speaking so loudly as to make his opinions clear to everyone in the vicinity. He took a swig of red wine, shaking his head with exasperation.

“What a load of pretentious drivel! I mean, really, who did they think they were fooling?”  


Aziraphale handed his cloakroom ticket to the fresh-faced boy behind the counter. He and Crowley been drinking a little before they went into the play[2] and Aziraphale was feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy. The man's obnoxiousness was infringing quite unacceptably on his cosy tipsiness. He turned to join Crowley in watching the uncomfortable conversation unfold, pulling a face. He had been studiously ignoring the idea of Gen's presence somewhere in the crowd – it didn't seem right to think of him while he was out in the real world, as if his conversation with Gen took place in a discrete space set apart from the rest of his life. Still, he was relieved to see that this man was altogether the wrong size and shape to be him.

“I actually quite enjoyed-” the man's companion started to say, but he cut her off.

“Complete and total farce, what a waste of money!”

“Well, I mean, actually you didn't- That is, I actually bought the-”

“The shit they'll churn out these days, honestly!”

“Oh, what an insufferable bore,” Aziraphale tutted.

“Mm,” Crowley hummed in agreement, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

The boy returned with their coats and Aziraphale turned his back on the couple to take them from him, smiling his thanks. As such, he heard rather than saw what happened next.

There was a soft click from somewhere near Aziraphale's shoulder, then the sound of breaking glass and a howl of dismay. Aziraphale whipped around to see the man dabbing ineffectually at a red stain splattered across his expensive suit and tie, every touch of his napkin seeming to spread the stain further, the remains of his spontaneously exploded wine glass all over the floor. Crowley looked on with a grin, and Aziraphale didn't have to see behind his sunglasses to know exactly how his yellow eyes would be twinkling. The man stormed off towards the bathroom, leaving his friend alone by the bar.

Aziraphale smacked Crowley on the arm, but without much malice. “Crowley!”

“What? He deserved it, he was being an arse. Here, make yourself feel better – his friend's just dying for someone interesting to talk to.”

Aziraphale looked over at the woman, who was looking past the theatre staff cleaning up the spillage to watch the crowd with a melancholy expression. He scanned the crowd in turn and spotted his mark – a woman in her twenties who had come to the theatre alone. With a click of his fingers, the young woman started to make her way to the bar. He blessed her with a gentle surge of gregariousness and within seconds the two women had fallen into happy conversation.

“Nicely done,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale flashed a smile at him. “Your idea,” he pointed out. “You old softie.”

Crowley waved the comment away and started to slip through the crowd to see what he could overhear. It was a habit of his, and one that Aziraphale was happy to indulge. Whenever they went to the theatre, Crowley liked to listen to the conversations of the other audience members as they left, hopping like a magpie from conversation to conversation, picking up interesting morsels as he went.

Aziraphale followed in his wake, jiggling his hold on the coats. He wasn't listening to the people around them. He was concentrating on not looking for Gen amongst them. He couldn't shake the urge to scan the crowd for narrow hips, long legs, clever fingers. It was ridiculous. He'd have a better chance picking Gen out of a crowd of nudists than this bunch of nicely dressed theatre lovers in their Oliver Bonas finery.  


And what would he say to Gen even if he did somehow recognise him? “Good evening, I'm the man from the internet with whom you shared pornographic pictures of yourself, can I get you a drink?” He pushed the thought away with a shake of his head. He was being ridiculous. With an effort,[3] he focused his attention on the line of Crowley's skinny back as he pushed through the crowd.

“The thing about the theatre is,” someone said, and Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to anticipate him stopping in his tracks to hear the rest. Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, the beginnings of a smile on his lips as he listened. “The thing about theatre is, people will laugh at things regardless of whether or not they're funny, just because they put it on stage.”

Crowley pulled an exaggerated 'do go on' face, making Aziraphale cough with badly disguised laughter. The speaker obliged, oblivious to the two additions to their audience.

“I mean, if I said any of that stuff at a party or something, nobody would laugh. But if they say it on stage, everyone acts like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard.”

Crowley nodded reasonably. He leant over to say to Aziraphale in a low voice, “Do you think they spend a lot of time at parties where nobody laughs at their jokes?”

Aziraphale snorted. “Get on,” he chided, pushing Crowley gently towards the door. “Horrible boy.”

“I thought I was an old softie,” said Crowley over his shoulder as they made their way to the exit.

“You're both,” Aziraphale answered. “You're old, soft and horrible. Like a carrot left too long in the back of the fridge.”

“Ugh, angel!”

The cold hit them like a wall of water as they stepped out beyond the press of people and into the night air. Aziraphale handed Crowley his coat and pulled on his own as they made their way towards the river.

“What did you think?” he said conversationally. He was determined to put Gen (and his hips, and his hands, and his long, biteable thighs) well out of his mind and concentrate on having a nice night with Crowley.

“Oh, I quite enjoyed it,” said Crowley, taking a nip from the hip-flask and offering it to Aziraphale. “Not as good as her other work but I enjoyed it.”

“Me too,” said Aziraphale. He took the proffered flask and sipped thoughtfully. “Although,” he confessed as he handed it back, “I can't say I think I really understood it.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “No, I haven't a clue what it was banging on about!”

Aziraphale tucked the ends of his scarf into his coat and fished a pair of knitted gloves out of his pocket. It was cold here by the water, with enough wind to make Aziraphale grateful for the extra layers he'd brought.

“The part with the, um,” he said, starting to turn his gloves the right way out.

“The ritual thing?” said Crowley.

“Mm,” Aziraphale nodded, concentrating on a difficult inverted pinky.

“Yeah, not a baldy. But there was a lot in there about gender and race and stuff as well, that stuff was done well.”

“Yes, I can't help but wonder if those themes contributed to that awful man's- Oh, my dear boy, haven't you got anything warmer?”

Crowley shrugged and shifted from foot to foot. He had his bare hands pushed deep in the pockets of his coat. It was a gorgeous piece of tailoring, black wool that fell to mid-thigh and fit snug to his narrow frame. But it wasn't much in the face of the cold air coming off the river.

“I'm fine,” he said.

“Nonsense, you'll freeze. Here, take this,” Aziraphale said, already pulling his scarf off.

“No, Aziraphale, really-” Crowley tried to protest, but Aziraphale paid him no mind.

“Come on!” he said with the brisk, no-nonsense manner of a school teacher. “Pop it on, no point arguing.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, mouth open to argue anyway, when Aziraphale stepped forwards and flipped the scarf over Crowley's head before he could say anything. Crowley threw up his hands, but did not step away.

“Angel, I do not need you to dress me!”

“Clearly you do,” said Aziraphale, wrapping the scarf once more around Crowley's neck and pulling the ends to straighten it. He went to tuck the ends in when Crowley stepped back, pushing Aziraphale's hands away.

“Give over!” he said, laughing.

“You have to tuck it in to keep your tummy warm!” said Aziraphale, leaning into the mother-hen routine.

Crowley cringed bodily at the word. “My- I do not- I am a horrible fucking demon, I do not have-”

“A tummy? Of course you do, everyone does.”

“You're fucking ridiculous, I'm not talking to-”

“I'm just concerned for your-”

“If you say 'tummy' one more time I swear to Someone I will smite-”

“Come here, I'll help-”

“Get away, you maniac!”

Crowley's ears were gorgeously pink, flushed with embarrassment and laughter. Furiously, he tucked the ends of the scarf into his coat and held out his arms.

“Happy now?”

“Perfectly,” said Aziraphale, beaming.

“Honestly,” said Crowley, trying to be annoyed and betraying himself with the grin still twitching at his lips. “You're an angel, for pity's sake. Have a little dignity.”

“I am an angel,” Aziraphale confirmed, suddenly sombre. “And do you know what that means?”

Crowley looked at him cautiously. “What?”

“It means,” Aziraphale said slowly, “that I have in my possession a perfectly formed, perfectly angelic tummy.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Crowley started to stride away, heading off along the river and away from Aziraphale's following laughter.

“On the sixth day,” called Aziraphale, skipping a little to keep up with Crowley's lengthening stride, “God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have each a little tummy-”

“I refuse to engage-”

“-and a woolly scarf to keep it warm-”

“You're an absolute-”

“-and it was good!’”

#

Crowley had left the Bentley at the shop when he'd come round earlier that evening to pick Aziraphale up, and the walk to the theatre had been the perfect antidote to the cooped up feeling Aziraphale had suffered most of the day. The walk back, however, was biting cold, with the kind of shivering, persistent drizzle that fell light as gossamer and slowly but surely left you entirely soaked. Still, they laughed as they walked, passing the hip-flask back and forth, good alcohol and better conversation more than enough to keep them warm – and more than enough to keep any thought of Gen far from Aziraphale's mind.

They rounded a corner and Aziraphale took Crowley's arm, pointing. “Oh, they're still open!” he said. “I read about them in the Telegraph the other week, it sounded wonderful.”

Crowley looked in the direction he was pointing. It was a restaurant, its bright-lit window like a beacon in the night. Crowley blinked, swaying slightly where he stood. It looked warm in there.

“D'you fancy it?”

“Yes, but listen,” said Aziraphale, rounding on Crowley and taking the lapels of Crowley's coat in his hands. “Listen to me. You must listen.”

“I'm listening,” said Crowley, blinking with surprise.

Aziraphale looked up at him, earnest and blurry. “Crowley, you must understand,” he said slowly.

“I... I'm listening, angel,” Crowley managed. The drizzle had caught in his hair, Aziraphale could see the shine of it clustered like dew on cobwebs. He dragged his eyes back to Crowley's, determined not to lose track of his point.

“Crowley,” he said doggedly. “This restaurant... has a sharing menu. And it looks divine.”

Crowley laughed. He let his hands come up to rest on Aziraphale's, not pulling them away – just letting them rest there. Aziraphale pressed his fists harder against Crowley's chest to drive his point home.

“I'm serious! I can't possibly order a sharing menu and eat it all by myself, you really- Stop laughing! You have to promise you'll eat at least a bit of it. Please,” he added, and hit Crowley with his best puppy dog eyes.

“You're drunk,” said Crowley.

“So are you.”

Crowley conceded the point.

“And besides,” Aziraphale continued, “surely that's all the more reason to line our-”

“If you say tummies-”

“Stomachs! I was going to say stomachs!”

Crowley laughed again, letting his chin drop to his chest. He squeezed Aziraphale's hands once and then pulled them gently away. “I promise,” he said, holding Aziraphale's gaze, “I won't make you suffer the sharing menu alone.”

Aziraphale's face softened. “Thank you. Dear boy.”

“You're welcome.”

For a moment, they stood there, looking at each other through the fuzz of alcohol and rain, lit strangely nuclear by the orange street-lights. It was Crowley who broke the moment.

“Come on,” he said, looking up and down the road before crossing. “Get in, before they close.”

#

The food was exquisite. Crowley, to Aziraphale's happy surprise, not only kept his word but more than held his own against Aziraphale's own appetite. They started with a bread board with olive oil, chili chata and burnt aubergine.[4] Then came a seemingly endless parade of dishes. Chicken with lemon myrtle salt, beef bavette, pickled quince, pork belly with kimchi and pink grapefruit, cauliflower fritters, seared squid with hoisin mayonnaise, five spice artichoke, garlic-fried bok choi, polenta chips, tamarind yoghurt – the plates crowded their table as they ate, barely leaving room for the wine glasses, let alone the cutlery. They ate and ate, drank and drank, laughed and laughed. By the time the food was finally finished, the wait staff were openly staring at the two, dumbstruck by the sheer quantity of matter they seemed able to pack away into their respective bodies.

Aziraphale leant back in his chair, entirely content. “Oh my goodness,” he breathed. “Oh, goodness me. Now, admit it – that was rather special.”

Crowley sighed happily, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses to better concentrate on the last of the flavours lingering on his tongue. “You really know how to pick a restaurant,” he admitted. He was drunk and full and basking in deep, warm happy. “That wasss incredible, angel. Thank you.”

Aziraphale waved away the thanks with a slightly sloppy hand. A waitress started gathering up the empty dishes. Crowley cracked open one eye and raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who knew when he was being watched even if he couldn't see Crowley's eyes, frowned.

“What?”

“Do you...”

“Spit it out, dear.”

Crowley sat up and and put his elbows on a newly-clear spot on the table. “What would you say to some cocktailsss?”

For a moment, Aziraphale didn't respond. He licked his lips. “You must be joking.”

“I'm, uh. I'm not, actually. Did you see them on the menu?” He leant sideways to get out of the waitress's way, keeping his eyes fixed on Aziraphale. “They looked pretty good...”

“We've had...” Aziraphale started, but the sentence eluded him. “We've had so much wine.”

“I know.”

“And whiskey.”

“Yep.”

“And... And more wine.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And now you want... cocktails?”

Crowley's shoulders wriggled, too inebriated to manage a proper shrug. “Jussst... Just maybe two? Or three?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, hard, his forehead crinkled in concentration. Then he turned to the waitress and smiled.

“My dear,” he said, enunciating carefully. “Might we have a look at your cocktail menu?”

The waitress, whose name was Simran, let out a burst of laughter. She looked disbelievingly from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again. Whatever, she thought to herself. They might be shit-faced, but they didn't seem likely to cause trouble.

“Sure,” she said, incredulous. “Do you want the dessert menu too?”

Crowley shook his head, waving a hand. “No, thank you. Jussst the drink.”

When the menu came, Aziraphale squinted down at it, experimenting with holding it first very close to his face and then at arm's length.

“I... I can't read this at all,” he mumbled.

Crowley, who was closing first one eye and then the other in an attempt to make the letters stay still long enough to read them, grunted in agreement. “Bloody new-fangled menus,” he said. “Bloody millennial menus. 's discriminatory.”

“Excuse me, my dear,” said Aziraphale loudly. Simran, who had been patiently waiting for their order for some time, leant into Aziraphale's line of sight, making him jump.

“Yes, sir?”

“My dear, could you possibly tell me what, um. What is... happening. Here.” He gestured vaguely towards the menu.

Simran considered her options. “Would you like me to pick for you?” she offered. It seemed a more expedient choice than reading the menu aloud. Relief broke over both the gentlemen's faces.

“Oh God yes,” said Aziraphale, gratefully handing over his menu. She took Crowley's menu as well and tucked them both under her arm.

“Would you like me to tell you, or would you like to be surprised?” she said.

“Ooh, surprise us!” Aziraphale answered.

“Just, nothing too sweet for me,” said Crowley, pulling a face.

“I don't mind sweet,” said Aziraphale in a stage whisper.

“Gotcha,” said Simran indulgently. These two were going to be incredible tippers.

Aziraphale smiled as he watched her leave. “I'm going to bless her,” he announced.

“What?”

“I'm going to! I'm going to bless her socks off.”

Crowley laughed. “At least wait and sssee what she brings us first.”

“No,” said Aziraphale, mischief in his eyes. “Shan't. Here we go...” He closed his eyes, pulled an entirely unnecessary face, and opened them again with a loud, “Pop! There we are – blessed as blessed is eggs!”

#

By the time they left the restaurant, the world was spinning around them. Simran watched them pulling on their coats, biting her lip.

“Are you sure you don't want me to ring you a taxi or something?” said Simran, but Aziraphale shook his head emphatically.

“Do not trouble yourself on our account, my dear. We are looker than we tough. Tougher than we look. Ahem.”

“'sides,” Crowley put in, “we're only going round the corner. Thanksss for the food,” he added.

“You're welcome,” said Simran, absolutely meaning it. The bill had been staggering – even a 10% tip would have been enough to keep her in drinks for the weekend. And these two gentlemen had tipped far more than 10%.

“Here, listen,” said Crowley, leaning towards Simran in what she thought might have been intended as a conspiratorial way, but which looked more like a sincere battle with gravity. “Lisssten. Is there anyone at work you jussst, you just really don't like? Or anywhere else, for that matter?”

“Um. Not really. Everyone at work's really nice,” she started, before another thought came to her. “Oh, there's this one guy at uni though – his name's Marty, he's fucking awful. Really skeevy, proper slimey bastard.”

Crowley nodded sympathetically. “What if,” he said. “What if I could make it so that Marty the Slime got ssshit on by a bird just before every job interview he ever has from now on?”

Simran's face lit up. “Oh my God, that would be hilarious!”

Crowley raised his hands in a 'say no more' gesture. He clicked his fingers. Simran blinked. Crowley looked at his fingers.

“Well, alright, that wasss a little underwhelming. But I promise. Marty the Slime. Taken care of. Free of charge.”

Simran laughed. “Cool. Whatever you say. Thanks, I guess?”

“You're welcome,” said Crowley, bowing with a flourish that nearly sent a nearby coat-stand flying.  


And with that, the two of them stumbled out the door.[5] The rain had, mercifully, stopped, and it was late enough that the traffic even in central London was little more than the occasional trickle. Crowley looked up at the stars as they walked, lost in his own thoughts. Then he heard something rustle. He frowned, not breaking eye contact with Orion. The rustle came again, followed by muffled crunching. He shot a look at Aziraphale, who looked back, sheepishness radiating off him like a prize Leicester Longwool.

“Are...” Crowley started, not quite believing he was about to say this. “Are you eating crisps?”

Aziraphale shook his head quickly, one hand behind his back.

“No? What have you got in your mouth, then?”

Aziraphale pulled a face, evidently trying to communicate the word “nothing” without actually saying it. Crowley folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

“Aziraphale,” he said firmly.

For a moment, Aziraphale managed to keep his composure. Then he collapsed into giggles, interspersed with crunches as he tried to finish his mouthful. Crowley lunged forwards, trying to pull Aziraphale's arm out from behind his back. Aziraphale wriggled and shrieked, his mouth finally empty, holding the crisps at arms length as Crowley fought to take them from him.

“No, Crowley, you'll spill them! I'll share, I promise I'll share!”

Crowley relented, falling as a dead weight across Aziraphale's shoulders. Aziraphale tried half-heartedly to shake him off but only managed to shift Crowley's position to something a little more comfortable. Aziraphale accepted his fate with as much grace as he could muster. He fished out a Monster Munch from the packet and held it up to his shoulder. Crowley ate it from his fingers, humming his thanks.

“You're chewing right in my ear,” Aziraphale said glumly.

“M'not,” said Crowley, swallowing loudly. “You're lissstening right in my mouth.”

Aziraphale didn't bother to argue. They walked along the pavement like that, Crowley's head on Aziraphale's shoulder, arms wrapped around his midriff, dragging his feet as they plodded towards the bookshop. Every so often, Crowley opened his mouth and Aziraphale obediently deposited a Monster Munch inside.

“Where did you even get these?” sighed Crowley after a few minutes. Aziraphale's silence was one Crowley knew all too well. He turned his head to try and look Aziraphale in the face, but the angel was staring fixedly ahead. “Angel?”

“Don't know,” said Aziraphale, pink cheeked.

“Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell,” said Crowley sternly. “Did you use a miracle to get yourself a never-ending packet of Monster Munch?”

Aziraphale fought not to smile. Lost. “No...”

“You bloody liar,” teased Crowley. “Talk about frivolous use of Heaven's resourcesss.”

“Oh, and you've never done the like.”

“'s different. I'm meant to be badly behaved. You're an emisssssary of the Lord. Crisp, please.”

Aziraphale snorted, popping another Monster Munch into Crowley's open mouth. “Hardly. Not any more, anyway. I'm... an independent contractor,” he said with a flourish.

“And what-” Crowley started, but was cut off by Aziraphale pushing another crisp into his mouth.

“Do be quiet, dear,” said Aziraphale, more than a little smugly.

Crowley grunted in displeasure, but did as he was told. He chewed, and then his face fell slowly still. Aziraphale knew why. His fingers were still against Crowley's mouth. He knew he should move them but they felt too far away to be real. He heard Crowley swallow, and felt the shock of his tongue brush against his fingertips as Crowley tried to lick his lips to speak. The touch was gone as soon as it came, Crowley's tongue darting back like it was burnt and cowering in the safety of his own mouth.

“Angel,” Crowley croaked.

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. Crowley's lips were warm against his fingers. He tried to concentrate, tried to make himself move but then, in a sudden rush, Crowley let his lips part and the tips of Aziraphale's fingers fell against the swell of Crowley's bottom lip. Crowley's tongue, emboldened, reached forward, hot and soft. Aziraphale could hardly breathe. He moved, just barely, his fingers falling just a little further. He heard Crowley's breath catch in his throat before he was lost in the hot, dizzying sensation of gentle pressure as Crowley started to suck-

“Oh...”

The sound was so quiet that even pressed close as they were, Aziraphale might have missed it. As it was, every spark of attention Aziraphale possessed was fixed on Crowley, registering every sound, every breath, every movement. He could feel the beat of Crowley's heart against his back as they moved, still walking, their feet seemingly operating on a separate system to the rest of them. There was no doubt in Aziraphale's mind that Crowley was as keenly focused as he was on the place where Aziraphale's fingers pressed against his tongue, teeth pushing gently down to hold them in place, lips drawn close around them.

Aziraphale turned his head and the movement brought his nose to Crowley's cheek, his forehead to rest against his temple, his mouth- His mouth was at the corner of Crowley's mouth, and Aziraphale's was open in surprise, his eyes flickering closed, their lashes brushing on Crowley's skin-

“We're here,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley did not process the words straight away. “Hngh?”

“We're...” Aziraphale swallowed, pulling his hand away. Regret twisted in his chest, he tried to catch his breath. “We're here.”

Crowley blinked. Took stock of their surroundings. On the other side of the road, the bookshop loomed like an accusation.

“Oh,” he managed. “Right. Right. Of course we are.”

Aziraphale's mouth was dry, his stomach somewhere very far away. Then Crowley drew himself up, a sudden loss of warmth from where he'd pressed against Aziraphale's back. When they got to the door, Aziraphale fumbled with his keys for all of three seconds before giving up and miracling the lock open. He took a deep breath as he stepped inside. It was nothing. Just a strange, silly, drunken moment, best left at the door.

He found himself moving towards the sofa, more out of habit that intention. He turned to ask Crowley something, but Crowley was blank-faced and lost in thought, following him without seeming to notice where he was.

“Crowley?”

The words filtered through slowly. Crowley started to stir back to awareness. He squinted at Aziraphale.

“Y'alright?” he asked eventually. “You're all... wonky.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, closed his eyes and prepared to make a pronouncement. “I... am very... drunk,” he said, finishing with a heavy sigh.

Crowley slumped into the sofa – good old bookshop sofa, constant friend, stalwart companion through countless drunken nights. He slapped the space beside him.

“C'mere,” he demanded.

Aziraphale made a small sound of protest. “'ve got a bed upstairs,” he mumbled, but Crowley only slapped the cushions again, harder.

“C'mere!”

The sofa creaked under the sudden weight of Aziraphale as he fell into it. Beside him, Crowley made a contented noise and started trying to take off his boots. Aziraphale loosened his bow tie, let his head fall back against the cushions and waited. After a minute or more – time had gone strangely loose around the edges – he clicked his fingers and sent Crowley's damned boots somewhere else entirely.

“Hey!”

Aziraphale waved his hand vaguely, part apology, part dismissal. Crowley didn't seem to mind. The sofa shifted as Crowley wriggled out of his coat and started arranging his ridiculous limbs into a comfortable configuration. Aziraphale was utterly unsurprised when a heavy weight, soft to the touch and smelling of Crowley's shampoo and something else that might have been pickled onion Monster Munch, fell against his chest. He wiggled around in his seat until he was comfortable, and fell, quickly and quite entirely, asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Aziraphale had established some ground rules early on in Crowley's adoption of the new technology. He wasn't to check it during meals or in the middle of conversations; when they went to the cinema or the theatre together it was to be switched off – not put on silent, to buzz and vibrate to its electronic heart's content; and Crowley was under strict instructions to inform Aziraphale without delay should he see something online that involved capybaras, unlikely interspecies friendships, or cats falling off things
> 
> [2] And a little more during, thanks to a seemingly bottomless hip-flask of Crowley's that Aziraphale had hardly tutted about at all before accepting.
> 
> [3] Not that kind.
> 
> [4] “That's clever,” said Crowley on reading this on the menu. “Admitting straight up that it'll be burnt. I'd do that if I had a restaurant, just to cover my back. Burnt aubergine. Under-cooked potatoes. Mediocre beef.” He'd had to stop there because Aziraphale had laughed while sipping his wine and it had gone down the wrong way, causing a small scene.
> 
> [5] Crowley's trick with Marty the Slime took effect later that month when Marty attended an interview for a job in a toy shop. Unfortunately, Marty soon cottoned on to his incredible bad luck (as he could only imagine it was) and quickly got into the habit of bringing with him a packet of wet-wipes whenever he went to an interview. The curse did not otherwise affect him.
> 
> Simran's blessing, on the other hand, brought her no end of delight. For the rest of her life, parking spaces made themselves available for her wherever she went. Phone companies let her cancel her accounts with them after a single short phone call, free of charge, and indeed often found themselves paying her for the privilege. She never took more than 90 minutes to play a game of Monopoly. And, though she unfortunately never had occasion to discover this side of herself, she lived the rest of her life guaranteed to always get the best price when haggling over goats. Aziraphale had honed his blessings in a quite different time and had never got round to updating this particular feature.


	5. The Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley had such a lovely night last night! And now, they suffer!
> 
> (Though, given that the "suffering" largely involves watching period dramas in their pyjamas and eating take-away, I wouldn't feel too sorry for them)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, did you say, "indulgent bantery no-plot cosiness with a side of yearning and sexual tension?" this is literally an entire chapter of them being hungover and adorable, with a dollop of filthy filth on the end to keep things interesting.
> 
> cws for: hangover-related nausea and pukey thoughts; some mentions of body issues; and then your usual phone sex stuff of masturbation, dirty talk, fingering, and sharing photos and videos of hanky-panky, including talking about handcuffs and oral sex.
> 
> as ever, if there's anything you think needs more warning then do just let me know. come say hi on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) :D
> 
> also, i know we saw 70s!Crowley but i choose to believe that that was the early disco era when it was more countercultural and latched onto punk pretty early, ooh perhaps he was in america for disco and then saw the new york dolls and had a Revelation only to come back to london and find the (far superior) british punk scene absolutely exploding, tho even as he rode the wave of punk he never engaged with the underlying racism/homophobia of the 'fuck disco' movement bc he's a demon, he's not a pure cunt like. anyway, please @ me with ur muso!crowley headcanons. i need them.

Aziraphale woke by degrees. The first thing he became aware of was his chest and stomach. They were warm – more than warm, hot, flushed with trapped heat. It was delicious, a concentrated sensation made all the more acute by the weight behind the heat. Something wonderfully warm and heavy was pressing down on him, pinning him in place. Not that he was inclined to move.

The second part of him to make itself known was his left hand. He had his arm slung loose and heavy around the weight on his chest, holding it close. He moved his fingers experimentally and found what he recognised dimly as t-shirt fabric beneath his touch. The fabric was soft and covered something that gave gently under the press of his fingers. He stretched his hand and squeezed, enjoying the sensation of hot, soft, heavy, all good things combining.

The weight moved then, shifting of its own accord. Under his hand, he felt it rise slowly and fall again with a rush of air. Aziraphale weighed up the pros and cons of opening his eyes. On the one hand, he was starting to build up a fairly good idea of what it was he held in his arms, and the thought of having his suspicions confirmed was a tempting one. In fact, if he was correct in his deductions, what lay on the other side of his eyelids was something he'd like very much to see, and might not have the chance to again. But on the other hand, opening his eyes would involve waking up rather more than he was inclined to, and bore with it the awful threat of having to face the consequences of what he found.

For an angel, Aziraphale wasn't much good at resisting temptation. He cracked one eye open, and a thrill of simple joy ran through him.

It was Crowley, of course, fast asleep and sprawled over Aziraphale like a cat in a patch of sunlight, Aziraphale's arm around around him, his hand pressed flush to the curve of Crowley’s side. Crowley was on his front, mostly, his legs sticking up at strange angles behind him, making the most of what room there was for them on the sofa. His face was cushioned on Aziraphale's chest, and he was snoring slightly. His t-shirt was damp with sweat, and Aziraphale thought that he should really find that more unpleasant than he did. But not only did he not find it unpleasant, he took some pleasure in the way the cotton stuck and pulled against Crowley's skin as he moved his hand. It felt desperately intimate, so far from Crowley's usual, deliberate cool.

He couldn't see Crowley's face at this angle, but he could see the back of his neck, the hair curling against it, dark with perspiration. He could see the edge of one ear, and lost himself for a moment thinking of that space between the back of Crowley's ears and his hairline, a stretch of clear skin that Aziraphale couldn't see without feeling a pang of tenderness. Crowley had always looked the same age, of course, and always would. But there were times when he flashed with boyish energy, sweet as an apple. It was the ears that did it, Aziraphale decided, when they flushed that lovely pink, his hair sticking up and his smile bright and artless. He looked like nothing so much as an excited boy, equal parts breathlessly bold and achingly vulnerable. It was irresistible. Almost irresistible.

As an act of mercy, Aziraphale's body took that thought as its cue to drag him into full consciousness. Sensations overwhelmed him in a dreadful wave, and he tumbled from his reverie like Icarus, wings melted in the blazing sun of a truly terrible hangover.

His stomach churned, his mouth dry, tongue foul, head aching, eyes flinching from the light. Nausea rose in the back of his throat. Every drop of moisture in him seemed to have been rung out by rough, twisting hands. His skin was too tight, and his head, dear God in heaven his _head_.

For a minute or more he could do nothing but stare, frozen in horror, at the ceiling, devoting every scrap of self-control he could muster to the effort of not immediately discorporating himself in a desperate coup de grace. He could hear a strange, drawn out, strangled moaning. Crowley shifted, grunted, barely waking.

“Wassat...?” he mumbled into Aziraphale's chest.

Aziraphale closed his mouth and the moaning sound cut off abruptly. He swallowed, hard. “Crowley,” he just barely managed to say.

Crowley, on hearing his name, nuzzled his head against Aziraphale in a gesture that would, in any other circumstances, have sent Aziraphale quietly hysterical. He drew in a deep breath and seemed poised to let it out in a perfect, happy-cat sigh... and froze. His voice, when it came, was cold and full of terror.

“Oh my shitting god.”

“Crowley, I think I'm going to die.”

“Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh holy shitting fuck-”

Crowley clawed himself to somewhere like upright. Aziraphale threw his arms over his face, pressing his head as if the pressure could stop his brain from falling apart inside his skull.

“Crowley, _do_ something,” he half sobbed. Everything, every part of him hurt. Even his _hair_ was hungover.

Crowley didn't seem to have heard him. He had his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, and was chanting a litany of obscenities.

“Crowley...!”

Crowley dropped his hands, smacking his lips with a look of dawning horror and disgust. “Why is... Why does it taste-?!” he spluttered. “Oh, fuck, my mouth tastes like-”

“Please don't,” Aziraphale begged. “Please don't finish that sentence.”

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

Just the mention of it made Aziraphale's gorge rise. “Don't you dare,” he said, with all the dark meaning he could manage. “Oh, Crowley, you have to do something!”

“I can't, I can't...” Crowley mumbled, face in his hands once more.

He leant back slowly, drawing up his legs so that his knees were tucked against his chest, curling around his misery until he was a tight ball of unhappiness at the far end of the sofa. Aziraphale knew he should snap his fingers, tap into the well of power that would make it all OK again. But his head was thick with throbbing pain, his stomach sloshing violently every time he moved, his blood felt hot and congealed as it slurped through his veins in a sticky, traitorous ooze. He groaned into the cushion.

“Why am I so sweaty,” Crowley whispered. “I... I am desiccated. But my back's all... sweaty.”

“I'm going to die. We're going to die. You have to-”

“I can't-”

“You have to do something, Crowley, or we are going to die here. Or I'll be sick on you.”

“You will not.”

“I will. I will and there'll be bits of... of Monster Munch in it.”

As soon as the words 'Monster Munch' left Aziraphale's mouth, Crowley lurched with a wave of nausea, trying not to gag.

“Oh God. Oh fuck. OK. Fuck. Hold on. Fuck.”

It took him three tries to lift his hand. Finally, he mustered the strength to click his fingers. A cold wash of relief broke over Aziraphale. His head cleared, his skin returned to its usual elasticity, his eyes stopped interpreting the morning light as a personal, violent assault. He let out a rush of breath, boneless with gratitude.

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed.

“Hey,” said Crowley, put out. “What did She have to do with it?”

Aziraphale brought his hands down to his chest and caught Crowley's eye. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You're a dear.”

Crowley pulled a face. “I don't think I quite got all of it,” he admitted.

Aziraphale considered. He was certainly feeling better than he had,[1] but Crowley was right. Traces of the hangover still lingered, dimmed and defanged but there nonetheless. He felt fantastically tired, and though he didn't think he'd be sick any time soon, his stomach certainly didn't seem its usual robust self. He tipped his head back on the arm of the sofa and laughed. Crowley regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

“What's so funny?”

Aziraphale shrugged and sighed. He looked at Crowley, a rush of fondness warming his chest. “Well... We had a good night, though, didn't we?”

Crowley's answering smile lit his face beautifully. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

A memory, long misplaced and dusted over, slowly surfaced, of a languorous day some 5,000 years ago when Crowley and he had found themselves together in a coastal city somewhere in the Mediterranean. The sun had been hot and the wine plentiful, and neither of them had much to do. There was certainly plenty going on, but all of it by humans running quite under their own steam, leaving he and Crowley twiddling their thumbs.

They'd drunk themselves senseless, and the day after, tired and not a little delicate after their revels, they'd spent the day in the cool, breezy shade of the villa Aziraphale had made his home, pecking at fruit, olives, honey cakes, whatever else took their fancy. He couldn't quite remember now why they hadn't miracled their hangovers away that day. Perhaps simply because it gave them an excuse to linger in one another's company. Even with the headache, it had been a beautiful day.

“Do you have anywhere to be today?” Aziraphale said, his voice not quite as carefree as he might have liked.

“Well. I suppose I should go home and get a shower. What?” said Crowley when Aziraphale's face twitched. “What's up?”

“Well. Um. That is. You could have a wash here, if you like.”

“...here?”

“Yes. Upstairs, I mean. Not half as swish as whatever multi-spray, high pressure waterfall you probably have at yours but perfectly serviceable-”

“Sorry, Aziraphale, I'm a bit lost. What are you-”

“Would you like to stay?” Aziraphale said at last, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Only I thought perhaps, we're still feeling a bit rough and I thought perhaps we could, I don't know, listen to a radio play or something. Nothing energetic.”

He looked at his thumbs as he spoke, fidgeting with the edge of his waistcoat and trying not to feel the weight of Crowley's attention. For longer than Aziraphale had thought possible, Crowley said nothing.

“Alright,” he said finally. He looked as surprised by his answer as Aziraphale. He flashed a smile, a shiver of something beneath the bravado – nervousness, perhaps? But what could he have to be nervous about? “Why not? Not like I've got anything else on.”

“Wonderful,” said Aziraphale. “That's settled then.”

They sat for a moment, a smile touching at the corners of Aziraphale's mouth.

“Corinth, wasn't it?” said Crowley softly.

“Hmm. I thought Delos. It was a lovely day, wherever it was.”

“Yeah. It was.” For a moment, they sat together in the memory of cool, stone-walled rooms and the sound of bees floating fat and sunny through the windows. Crowley broke the silence. “If we're doing this, we're doing it properly, mind you – tea and toast and pyjamas and crap TV, OK?”

“Whatever you want.”

“And you can get me a take-away later.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think I can stretch to that.”

Crowley nodded decisively and sat up straight, his mind made up. “Right then. Let's have a hangover.”

Aziraphale led Crowley up to the flat with the barest hint of trepidation. Crowley had never actually seen the upper floor of the shop. As the stairs creaked under the unaccustomed weight of not one but two pairs of feet, Aziraphale had a sudden panicked thought that he'd made a mistake – that inviting Crowley upstairs would constitute an irreversible violation of his private sanctum. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated, hand on the doorknob to the upstairs hall. Crowley looked up at him, patient but expectant. Aziraphale swallowed.

“Welcome,” he said, for want of something else to say.

It was, really, a humble sort of space. Nothing to write home about. But Crowley peered into each door as they passed it, apparently fascinated with each new revelation. A living room lined with bookcases with one small, squashy sofa in front of a wood-burning stove. A kitchen with barely enough counter space for a kettle and a toaster. And, in the bathroom, an incongruously large claw-foot bath. Crowley laughed when he saw it.

“Oh, trust you,” he said.

“What? It's a bathtub, what's so funny?”

“God, you've even got a little shelf for a glass of wine. And I bet the water never goes cold and the bubbles never go flat and you never, ever drop your book.”

Aziraphale looked aghast. “Certainly not!” Suddenly, a thought lit Aziraphale's face. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Oh, I just remembered! I know you said pyjamas but I've actually-”

“Please don't make me wear tartan, angel, I'm already suffering enough.”

Aziraphale shot him a look. “It's not tartan. It's yours, actually. Or it was.”

He was off down the corridor before Crowley could stop him, stepping into the bedroom and out of sight. The bedroom had been the only room they'd passed with its door closed. Crowley hung back, waiting for Aziraphale to come back. He didn't like to pry.[2]

“Aha!” Aziraphale re-emerged, triumphantly brandishing a bundle of pale fabric. “It was after you'd been to some concert or another, back in, what was it, '75? '76? I was downstairs minding my business and then suddenly there's you, quite as drunk as I've ever seen you, banging on the door with a black eye and a split lip and demanding to be let in, do you remember? Perhaps not, you were absolutely cucumbered. I let you in – goodness knows you weren't going to give me a wink of peace until I did – and you barged in, declared you'd had the best night of your life and then passed out on the sofa muttering something about throwing chairs. I just left you to it. When I came down in the morning you'd gone. Found the shirt a couple of days later wedged down the back of the sofa cushions, you must have taken it off in your sleep and left it there - after miracling yourself up a new one, I assume, I'm sure I'd have heard about it if you'd wandered out of the shop in the wee hours in nothing but those ridiculous trousers with the zips and the, the funny little strappy bits...”

“1977,” Crowley breathed. “The Clash at the Rainbow. I remember.”

He was staring at the bundle of fabric in his hand. He unfolded it slowly, holding it up so he could see the image on the front. Aziraphale pulled a face.

“Hmm. Yes. Not your most tasteful choice.”[[3]](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0170/3532/products/nydollsfront_1024x1024.jpg?v=1464667369)

“It's punk. It's not meant to be tasteful.”

“That's not the Clash, though, is it? It says New York Dolls.”

Crowley pulled a face. “You don't wear a band's t-shirt when you're going to their show, Aziraphale,” he said, in a tone that suggested the thought was so uncool it physically hurt Crowley to even consider it. Luckily, Aziraphale was, by and large, immune to what Crowley thought was cool or not.

“Well, anyway. I thought you might like it back.”

Crowley's smile split his face like a sunrise. “Yeah, it's... It's really cool. Thanks, angel. Thanks for keeping hold of it.”

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat, his cheeks warm. “You're welcome. It was no bother – just had it in a drawer. Mostly forgot about it to be honest...”

Crowley wasn't listening. He traced the outline of the letters with one finger, replaying the memory of that night. Aziraphale wasn't looking at the t-shirt. He was watching Crowley's face, taking in his smile and the distant look in his eyes and letting himself feel a flush of pride at having caused them. Then he cleared his throat.

“Anyway,” he said brightly. “I shall leave you to it. Towels are on the shelf there, and help yourself to shampoo or what have you.”

“Hmm? Oh, right. Yeah. Thanks,” Crowley managed, still wrapped in his reminiscence.

He stepped absent-mindedly into the bathroom and closed the door. A moment later, Aziraphale heard the sound of running water followed by a crisp machine gun blast of a snare drum as Crowley cranked up the volume on his phone.

#

Aziraphale didn't bother with a shower – they had their place, especially when taken hot and long and with plenty of steam, but he didn't see the point if he only wanted to freshen up. With a click of his fingers, he was fresh as a daisy and clad comfortably in his pyjamas. That done, he curled up on the sofa with a well-thumbed copy of _Regency Buck_ and a woolly blanket.

He had been reading for around twenty minutes when the racket from the bathroom abruptly cut off. It was almost a shame – he'd been quite enjoying the reminder of Crowley's presence, however raucous it had been. He looked up to say hello when Crowley walked in – and the words evaporated on his tongue.

“Oh good grief.”

Crowley's answering grin was positively lascivious. He looked himself up and down. “What?” he said, all innocence. “Something wrong?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, entirely unfazed and also quite coincidentally noticing for the first time just how interesting the pattern in the wood of his mantelpiece was.

Crowley came over to the sofa with somehow even more swing in his hips than usual. “Did you, perhaps,” he drawled, enjoying himself far too much, “forget just how tight t-shirts were in the 70s?”

Aziraphale absolutely refused to blush. He shot a look at Crowley and immediately his fluster gave way to familiar exasperated fondness.

“You're absurd,” he said as Crowley threw himself into the space on the sofa beside him.

“You can talk. You look like a wholesome father figure from a 1950s Christmas card.”

Aziraphale brushed imaginary lint off his brushed cotton knee. “Heaven forfend I choose my sleepwear on the grounds of warmth and comfort,” he sniffed. “Honestly, you'd wear tinfoil trousers if someone told you they were 'cool'.”

“Only if they came in black. Give us some of that blanket, would you? Let me cover my shame.”

Aziraphale huffed air out of his nostrils but rearranged the blanket so Crowley could have a share. Crowley wriggled around, getting himself comfortable.

“Here, lift up a sec,” said Crowley, pushing his toes against the side of Aziraphale's leg. Aziraphale looked down at them – and burst out laughing.

“Well! They're not very rock and roll, are they?” he said.

Crowley's feet were ensconced in a pair of huge fluffy socks, his skinny jogging bottoms rising above them to reveal bony ankles.

“Shut up. They're comfy. Come on, lift up.”

Aziraphale mumbled something about double standards, shifting position for Crowley to wedge his feet under the backs of his thighs. Crowley burrowed down into the sofa, already tapping at something on his phone.

He'd left his sunglasses somewhere, perhaps in the bathroom. His hair was wet and sticking up in all directions, he smelled of Aziraphale's soap. A swimmy, difficult feeling took hold of Aziraphale's stomach. He'd been worried about bringing Crowley upstairs, worried it would disturb the sense of peace he'd so carefully cultivated. But Crowley fit so well here he might have been part of the decor. No, Aziraphale admitted to himself, it was more than that. It was as if the flat hadn't been complete without him – as if his inner sanctum had been missing some vital part, until now. It wasn't a comfortable thought. Aziraphale pushed it away, turning back to his book with single-minded purpose.

Crowley got bored of his phone after about twenty minutes and started pestering Aziraphale for the remote control for the ancient TV/VCR in the corner of the room. Once he'd been given in to, he somehow[4] managed to get his Netflix account up on the hazy 14 inch screen, prodding at the remote to fix the colour balance. Aziraphale didn't pay it much mind to begin with, preferring to read while Crowley skipped from cartoons to reality television to sitcoms. But then he happened to look up while Crowley was scrolling[5] and something caught his eye.

“What was that?” he said.

“What was what?”

“That programme. Go up. No, up again. There, three to the right. Is that-”

“Oh, you cannot be serious.”

“It is! Oh please, Crowley, can we? Just one episode?”

“It won't be one episode and you know it, I know what you're like-”

“I think I have a little more self control-”

“-remember all your favourite parts-”

“-finest adaptation-”

“-bloody lake scene-”

“-hardly unreasonable-”

“-six hours!”

Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a pleading look. Crowley's mouth opened and closed as he tried to find an argument. Then he gave in.

“Fine! Here, take the remote. I'm going to make some tea.”

“There's biscuits in the cupboard!” Aziraphale said helpfully, tucking his feet up under himself and getting comfortable.

“I'll biscuit you...” Crowley muttered darkly, sloping off to the kitchen.

From the moment Mrs Bennett declared that Netherfield Park had been let at last, Aziraphale was swept away in a whirl of nostalgic romance. He ate his biscuits and drank as much tea as Crowley was willing to bring him, wrapped up in the familiar story like a hand-knitted blanket. They had just reached one of Aziraphale's favourite scenes – an invention for the television adaptation but one he approved of wholeheartedly – when Crowley made an appreciative noise.

“You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “everyone bangs on about the lake scene but I don't think they give this one enough credit.”

Aziraphale looked at him, surprised. Crowley's attention was fixed on the screen where Colin Firth was brooding attractively in a tin bathtub. Aziraphale tried to process his reaction into speech.

“Oh. I, uh. I shouldn't have thought he was your type.”

“Hmm?” Crowley looked away from the screen at last, raising his eyebrows.

“Colin Firth. Darcy. I wouldn't have thought he was your type.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, his voice maddeningly neutral. He turned back to the telly. “Don't really have a type, to be honest.”

Aziraphale's heart was doing unhelpful things in his chest. He tried to think of something to say but Crowley beat him to it.

“Do you? Have a type, I mean?”

Aziraphale swallowed and sent a small, silent prayer to Someone that his voice would match Crowley's for disaffected cool. “Not really,” he said, dismissively as he could.

Crowley hummed, an acknowledgement of Aziraphale's answer but without carrying any further information. The next time he spoke it was about something quite unrelated – some trivia about one of the actresses, perhaps. It could have been about the moon landing for all Aziraphale knew. His attention was focused on one solitary thought rattling about his skull like a marble in a balloon.

What the blazes was he supposed to make of _that_?

#

It was late in the evening when Crowley yawned and stretched and declared himself ready for bed. The detritus of their day spread out across the coffee table and the floor around the sofa – plates dusted with toast crumbs, stained mugs, and now empty take-away containers, cutlery and plates streaked with saag gosht, biryani and methi murg. Aziraphale crunched happily on a poppadom, more for the texture than any possible lingering hunger.

“D'you need me to walk you out?” he said, brushing crumbs off the front of his pyjama top. Crowley made a non-committal sound.

“Can for me,” he said. “You've got raita on your sleeve.”

“Hmm? Oh, bugger.” Aziraphale twisted his arm, briefly considered his options, then simply licked the offending dab of yoghurt away.

“Well. Waste not want not, I suppose,” said Crowley dryly.

“Would you like any of the leftovers?”

“Nah. You have it. I know you like cold curry.”

“I do! And cold pizza.” He got up and started looking around for his slippers in the maelstrom he and Crowley had created in the little room. For two people who had hardly moved all day, they'd made quite a mess. “Cold chips are less acceptable,” he said as he pulled the first slipper out from under an abandoned cushion and continued the search for the second. “Cold noodles, on the other hand, are a delight.”

“Ugh. One word for you, angel – congealed.”

Aziraphale dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Crowley yawned again and reached his arms up over his head, leaning into the stretch with an undignified noise. His jogging bottoms rode low on his hips and as his t-shirt moved with him, a slim stretch of pale skin revealing itself above the waistline. Aziraphale turned his eyes away as if he'd walked in on something obscene happening in a public bathroom.[6]

“I'll see you to the door,” he said, eyes still averted.

“Cool.”

Aziraphale had the sense he could have offered anything from a weekend in Paris to a spot of self-immolation and have been met with the same sleepy disinterest.

Descending the stairs was like stepping into the space between universes. Above, the cosy quiet of the flat, still ringing with the echoes of their day. Beyond, the rest of the world, busy and bright – taxis with their lights flaring, buses chuffing and grumbling along their routes, six million lives unfolding like a stop motion film played at double speed. But the shop was dark and cool and quiet, lit with second-hand light, its corners blue-shadowed and still.

“Mm,” said Crowley approvingly. “Spooky.”

Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice and it helped, a little. They detoured to the sofa for Crowley to pick up his coat and, after a brief but fruitless search, miracle up a new pair of boots. Aziraphale hung back in the doorway as he pulled them on. When they reached the front door, he paused, hand on the latch. He looked up – and found he had no idea what he wanted to say. The street-lights spilled over through the door windows, picking out the sharp angles of Crowley's face. Crowley didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

“I've...” Aziraphale started. His tongue was terribly dry all of a sudden. He swallowed, tried again. “I've had a lovely day,” he managed. Crowley's head moved just barely, a hint of a nod. “Thank you for, um. For staying.”

The silence stretched out between them. It was so quiet that when Crowley licked his lips, Aziraphale fancied he could hear the brush of his tongue, the catch of a tiny spot of dry skin on his lower lip pulling for a second before springing back, full and firm. Aziraphale wished he was wearing something other than pyjamas. A suit of armour, perhaps, or a hazmat suit. Anything that might muffle the sound of his heartbeat, crowding and loud.

“I could,” Crowley began, stepping forwards a fraction. Aziraphale's heel bumped the door gently as he moved backwards, unthinking. Crowley took a breath, held it for a second, and exhaled. He blinked, finally, mercifully. “I could meet you for dinner tomorrow,” he said, and Aziraphale was sure – almost sure – that it wasn't what he'd been about to say. But he didn't know how to ask.

“OK,” he said instead.

“Cool. I'll, um. I'll see you then, then.” He pulled a face, cringing at the clunky sentence, but Aziraphale hardly noticed.

“Yes. Yes, that sounds...”

He trailed off. There was a long, heavy pause. Aziraphale stared at the the skirting board. Crowley, the cornices. A gaggle of women stumbled past on the pavement outside, their laughter muffled by the glass, making Aziraphale look up. He watched the women walk down the street, the sound of their heels on the pavement still barely audible as they rounded the corner and slipped out of sight. Crowley cleared his throat.

“You, uh. You going to let me out?”

“Hmm? Oh, gosh, sorry, yes,” Aziraphale blustered, finally stepping out of Crowley's way to let him reach the door. Crowley pulled it open, letting in a blast of cold air. Aziraphale shivered, his toes curling gratefully in his slippers.

“Have a nice night, angel. Talk to you later.”

“Goodnight. Oh!” A thought struck him just as Crowley was turning to leave. “What about your glasses? Are they still upstairs? I could run up and-”

Crowley cut him off with a click of his fingers. The sunglasses appeared on his face and for the first time in 6,000 years, Aziraphale was glad to see them. Crowley smiled, and with his eyes safely hidden, Aziraphale chose to believe it was sincere.

“I sent my clothes home as well,” Crowley said. “Left them on your bathroom floor before, sorry. But they're away now, it's all nice and tidy for you.”

Aziraphale nodded, tried to find the right feeling. “Thank you,” he said. “Like I said, it's been a lovely day.”

“Sure, lovely. See you tomorrow.”

“Mind how you go.”

Aziraphale closed the door behind him, shutting off the sounds of outside in a single blow. He crossed the room with steady, even footsteps, but as soon as he reached the stairs and saw the warm light spilling from the flat above, he rushed forwards, the door slamming behind him.

The living room smelled of curry and stale air, and Aziraphale focused his energy on tidying up. He clicked his fingers and Vaughan Williams' Symphony No. 5 started playing on the ancient stereo. He had no reason to be agitated, he told himself as he deposited the leftovers in the fridge and the miraculously clean plates in the cupboard.[7]

By the time the living room was back in its proper order, the music was starting to work its magic. He felt calmer, but there was still a knot of unspent energy in his chest. He sat on the sofa, listening to the swell and sway of the strings. Well, he supposed. There was one thing he could try. He reached for his phone.

Gen had left him a message that morning – nothing serious, just a friendly hello and an inquiry about how he found the play.

'Sorry, I'm only seeing this now,' Aziraphale wrote back. 'I've been busy all day. I enjoyed the play very much, and you?'

Gen didn't reply straight away. Aziraphale had opened up his crossword app and was puzzling over 17 across[8] when a notification popped up from Grindr. He tapped into it, crossword forgotten.

'no worries, i figured as much. i liked it! bit weird but thats no bad thing'

Aziraphale smiled and let the conversation take up his whole attention. Best not leave any spare lest it start chewing on unhelpful subjects. After swapping opinions and a spot of small talk, Aziraphale decided it was time to broach the real reason he'd texted Gen.

'May I be completely honest with you?'

'hmm, it depends. is it complimentary? if not, id rather live a lie'

That made Aziraphale laugh. 'I certainly think it's a compliment,' he wrote.

'go on then'

'The truth is, I'm feeling rather restless and was hoping you might be in the mood to help?'

'!! a booty call !! or booty text. booty dm? whatever. booty comms !!'

Aziraphale didn't even try to translate. He took the exclamation marks as a good sign and ventured on.

'I hope it isn't too forward,' he wrote. 'And of course, feel free to say no.'

'“““too forward””” like u havent literally seen my dick lol'

'Oh, I don't know – some people prefer a more circuitous approach.'

'im the one who asked if u wanted to sext lol its fine are u in the mood now?'

Aziraphale shifted position on the sofa. Then, on second thoughts, he stood up and went into the bedroom instead. Might as well give himself space to sprawl, should the occasion call for it. The stereo off at a thought, the bedroom door swung shut, and Aziraphale settled onto the bed as the curtains closed of their own accord.

'I'm getting there,' he wrote back. 'It would be nice to have some company, so to speak.'

'no arguments from me. honestly, ive been feeling some kind of way all day'

'Oh?'

'yeah, i was thinking about you, actually. thinking about ur thighs'

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. 'My thighs?'

'they looked so good in the photos you sent. nice and big – in a really good way! i liked them a lot'

Needlessly, Aziraphale looked down at his legs as if checking they met with Gen's description. His thighs spread out thick and wide, he ran a hand up one leg and felt the soft give of his flesh under his palm. He was going to answer when a second text came through.

‘ive been thinking about them, thinking about what they'd feel like wrapped round me. or underneath me, what it would be like to sit in your lap and straddle them. kneeling down between them, kissing my way up them’

“Oh, goodness me,” Aziraphale breathed.

Aziraphale had never minded being soft. His corporation wasn't built for speed or strength or for the highly charged, swaggering sensuality that some people embodied.[9] His was a body built for pleasure – slow, heady, building pleasure that took its time and tarried on the best bits. It was a body that could savour fine food and wine, or hold another body close and make it groan and sigh, or lie sleepy and stupid in a warm patch of sun for just as long as it liked. And Aziraphale was always ready to find new pleasures to indulge in.

But despite his best efforts and regardless of what he might tell himself, Aziraphale was not immune to the societies he lived in. Gabriel's comments in the park had landed on top of a heap of negative thoughts, words and associations that pushed themselves against his consciousness with every magazine, every movie, every advertisement he saw. For the most part, he resisted these messages without much effort – he was an angel, after all, what did he care if he didn't see anyone like him on the cover of GQ? But occasionally the noise of it all got too much and he twinged with something nearing shame and started to think things like 'calorie' and 'cardio'.

So to have someone explicitly, enthusiastically tell him that his soft, heavy thighs were something special, something to be actively desired and celebrated, was no small thing. He ran a hand over his leg once more and texted back, smiling and excited.

'Would you like a better photo?' he said.

'fuck yes please,' came the reply, so fast it made Aziraphale blush.

Aziraphale wasted no time. He shifted himself down to the end of the bed, pulling off his pyjama top as he went. Then he kicked off his bottoms, leaving him in a pair of pale blue boxers decorated with thin white stripes. He put both feet on the floor and thought for a moment about how best to proceed, absent-mindedly adjusting himself.

He lay back, weight on one elbow as the other hand held the phone high above his body. The flesh of his thighs spread wide on the mattress, the shape of his dick just discernible through the fabric of his boxers. The photo captured enough of his stomach to show its softness, but the focus was firmly on his lower half. Then he sat up and moved the camera to point at more of an angle – almost a point of view shot, if the viewer were kneeling in front of him. His legs were apart but not too wide – he wanted to look natural, for all the careful posing it took to do so. He let his left hand rest casually on his thigh and let himself imagine for a moment what he would do if Gen were really kneeling there in front of him, nestled between his legs, those long, clever fingers digging into the flesh.

He took the photo and sent them both, unable to choose between them and too keen to waste time trying. Then he lay back on the bed and waited for Gen's reply.

'god youre gorgeous! i love your body. i wish i could touch you, show you how hot you make me'

Aziraphale swallowed, his heart beating hard. 'How would you touch me?'

'that depends. the other night you were fucking my face, taking charge'

'Would you like me to do that again?'

'if you want to, sure. but maybe we could swap?'

The thought sent a shiver of anticipation through Aziraphale. Oh, he liked that idea. He liked it very much. 'Yes, anything you want. Tell me what you'd do to me.'

He slid his hand down his body as he waited for Gen's reply, trailing his fingers over his skin and eliciting a flourish of goosebumps in their wake. His nipples hardened, and he licked his thumb and forefinger before pinching them, rolling them between his fingers, the sensation shooting sparks of arousal straight to his hardening prick. Gen's reply took a while to arrive, but Aziraphale didn't mind. He shut his eyes and concentrated on the feel of his body coming alight under his touches, the blood pumping through his veins, the rush of his breath over his lips, the movement of his boxers against his skin as he shifted position.

Gen's message, when it came, proved well worth waiting for.

'ive been thinking about you all day,' it read. 'about ur body, how you'd feel underneath me, what it would be like to touch you, kiss you, press my teeth into the soft parts of you, what kind of noises you'd make. i want to push you down onto the bed and see you spread out for me like a banquet. i'd push your legs apart and crawl between your thighs like i belong there, pushing my hips against yours, wrapping you around me. i'd take you by the wrists and make you hold the headboard while i kiss your neck, your chest, your beautiful stomach'

Aziraphale dug his fingers into his thigh and groaned. It was as if Gen had a direct line into Aziraphale's mind, he seemed to know exactly what to say to turn him on. Aziraphale moved himself back up to the top of the bed and lay back against the pillows, opening his legs and slipping his hand between them.

'do u want me to keep going?' Gen asked.

'Yes, tell me,' Aziraphale wrote back, already breathing hard. 'I want you to take me, I want you to do whatever you want to me.'

He wondered if Gen was in the same state he was, if he was arching his back against his own bed to try and placate the crawling, twisting arousal that had dug its claws into his spine.

'i want to move down your body, slowly, teasing, making you moan,' Gen wrote. 'i want to press my face to your crotch and find out what you smell like there, feel the push of your cock against my cheek through your boxers. i saw your precum the other day, your dick getting so good and wet for me. are you wet for me now? is your pretty cock leaking in your pants at the thought of me?'

It was all Aziraphale could do to hold the phone steady. He squeezed his cock, hard and leaking, and pressed his boxers against the tip to make a small wet patch bloom on the fabric. Then he sent a photo of it to Gen, still holding himself, his hips moving in a mindless, thrusting rhythm.

'that's perfect, youre so perfect,' Gen replied. 'i love the thought of you touching yourself while you think of me. i want you to come thinking of me'

'Keep talking to me,' Aziraphale wrote back. 'Please, keep telling me what you want to do.'

'i want to pull your boxers off with my teeth'

Aziraphale groaned. He pushed his hand under his waistband to feel himself properly, slicking the head of his dick with precum. It didn't feel right though, it didn't match the fantasy he was constructing with Gen. He pulled the boxers off, dropped them off the side of the bed and spread his legs. That was better – there was that wonderful vulnerability, that delicious openness that Gen was evoking.

'Keep going, please,' he wrote. 'I want you so badly.'

'do u like being tied up?'

'I like handcuffs, will you lock me up and fuck me? Please, darling, I want you to take me.'

'youre in a hurry,' wrote Gen, and Aziraphale could practically hear the self-satisfied smile that it came with. He didn't care – he was enjoying himself too much to feel self-conscious. 'lets compromise. imagine ive got you cuffed to the bed. you try and pull away but youre trapped there, hands above your head, stretched out for me. i want to take your cock in my mouth, run my tongue around its tip and taste the precum as i squeeze it out of you. but im going to take my time, sweetheart. im going move so slowly, pushing your thick, heavy cock down into my throat and holding it there until i gag. im holding you open with my other hand, spreading your legs so you've got nowhere to hide. ill fuck you with my mouth slowly, pushing you deep, until youre begging me to come'

It was almost too much for Aziraphale. He wrenched his hand away from his dick, urging himself to wait, to make this last. The strength of his desire made him grit his teeth, hissing for breath as he tried to bring himself back from the brink of orgasm. When he picked up his phone again, he saw he'd missed a message.

'id like to move you onto your front, slide my cock between your thick, soft thighs and fuck myself with them. ill work you open while i do it, press my fingers into your hole until youre loose and wet and ready for me. fuck, i want you so much. i want to fuck you so much. show me your arse, i want to know what you'd look like underneath me'

Aziraphale pushed his head backwards into the pillow, shutting his eyes and moaning. This man was going to be the death of him. He didn't bother trying to write a reply. He rolled onto his front and lifted himself up on his knees so his arse was in the air, face pressed into the pillows. He couldn't resist reaching back and touching himself. His fingertips, miraculously slick, slid between his cheeks to stroke his hole, barely teasing himself. The sensation pulled noises from his throat that he'd have been embarrassed by if anyone had been there to hear them. He fumbled for his phone and reached back to take a photo, not bothering to remove his hand.

'oh god,' Gen replied. 'god, youre perfect. youre fucking perfect, look at you. i want you so badly, do you have any idea what youre doing to me?'

Aziraphale huffed into the pillow, too breathless to laugh properly. 'Show me,' he managed to type, before closing his eyes to concentrate on the feeling of his fingers against his hole.

He slipped one finger inside himself, the muscles relaxing at his will. It felt good – less intense, he could feel himself slipping away from the precipice and settling into a calmer, more consistent pleasure. He pushed a second finger inside, sighing at the pressure. He lost track of how long he stayed like that, fucking himself slowly with his fingers, his cock leaking a steady stream of precum onto the bedspread.

Finally, he pulled his hand free and rolled onto his back to look at his phone. Gen had sent a video, and Aziraphale returned his hand to his hole as he watched, moving his fingers in time with the images on the screen.

The video was from a low angle, propped up on a pillow, Aziraphale thought. Gen knelt up in front of the camera, the angle making him seem tall and dominating. His face was out of shot but Aziraphale could see the rest of his body, the long, lean lines of him, taut with intention. Gen had his dick in his hand and was fucking himself slowly, almost disinterestedly. It gave him an air of arrogance and power, like a rock star who knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand. But his chest was flushed and shone with sweat, and Aziraphale could imagine how he'd feel against him, heavy and warm. It was too much.

'I'm going to come,' he wrote, more matter of fact than he felt. 'I want to see you come too, I want to imagine you're inside me when you do.'

'anything you want. anything. do u want me to come first? i want you to film yourself'

'Show me'

The next video Gen sent was less controlled than the first. He pumped his fist up and down his cock, and Aziraphale turned up the volume on his phone so he could hear every sound – the slick wetness of Gen's cock, the creak of the mattress as he moved, the stifled sounds he couldn't help making. Finally, Gen came, a deep moan pulling out of him. He sat back on his heels, chest heaving as he pumped himself through the last of his orgasm. He was still for a moment, breathing raggedly, the stretch of his neck telling Aziraphale that he had his head tilted back in exhaustion. Then he reached for the phone, fumbled it for a moment, and the video cut out.

Aziraphale didn't waste time making his response. He held the camera at an angle that took in both his cock and his arsehole, lifting his hips to make sure Gen could see his fingers. He didn't have a hand free to work his cock, but it didn't matter. He closed his eyes, imagined Gen inside him, his sharp hips snapping against him, the sound of their bodies meeting in wet obscenity. He felt himself tighten as his orgasm started to build, and he arched his back and moved his fingers faster, deeper, desperate for release. Finally, the wave of sensation crested and he came with a groan he couldn't have held back if he'd tried. He slumped, trying to catch his breath. He was barely aware of pulling his fingers free, or of sending this final video to Gen. He was barely aware of anything but the aftershocks of his orgasm still shivering through him.

After an indeterminate amount of time, his phone buzzed.

'i dont think im ever goig to walk again'

Aziraphale laughed, exhausted and sticky and utterly content. He tried to think of what to say but the words slipped out of his grasp as he reached for them.

'youre incredible,' said Gen while he was still trying to remember what words were. 'your body is incredible'

Aziraphale stretched and wriggled, his mind loose and blissful. 'You too,' he wrote, and wished he was up to saying something cleverer.

'ah, bit bony though!' said Gen, followed by a laughing emoji with a sweat drop. Aziraphale frowned, gathering his wits with a force of will.

'I don't know if you're fishing for compliments or you really think that,' he wrote, 'but either way, I'm having none of it. You're absolutely gorgeous. Long legs, lovely hands – those hips! You're beautiful.'

Gen’s ellipses flashed up, vanished, flashed up again. 'you really mean that, don't you?'

Well. This was a little heavier than he'd expected for pillow talk. Aziraphale rolled onto his side, tucking his knees up towards his chest. 'Of course I do. I don't think people lie about things like that.'

Gen took a long time to answer. While he waited, Aziraphale cleaned himself up and tucked himself under the duvet, forgoing pyjamas to enjoy the feel of the sheets against his skin.

'maybe. they don't usually say it to me though,' said Gen. Aziraphale's heart twinged at the words, he tried not to read too much into them but it was hard not to sense a note of loneliness behind them. 'sorry, ill let you get to sleep.'

Aziraphale started typing a reply, something to tell Gen that he had nothing to apologise for, that Aziraphale meant everything he said, when Gen interrupted.

'thank you,' he said. 'really, its good to hear. its nice to be fancied so much by someone so hot,' he added, with another emoji. Aziraphale smiled.

'I can honestly say,' he wrote, 'I fancy the absolute pants off you.'

'ha! good to know! go on, get some rest. ill talk to you tomorrow.'

'Alright, darling. Talk to you then. Sleep well xx'

'night xx'

A soft, indulgent smile crept over Aziraphale's face. He set his phone down on the bedside table and turned off the light, closing his eyes with a sigh. After a moment, he opened them again and reached for the phone. He tapped into Gen's video, licking his lips. Another viewing could hardly hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Admittedly it would have taken a combination of chainsaws, battery acid and Andrew Lloyd Webber to make him feel much worse.
> 
> [2] This is untrue. He loved to pry. Prying was one of his foremost pastimes. But he didn't want to pry into Aziraphale's bedroom, or the question of what it might mean that Aziraphale had a bedroom, or what activities might be hypothetically facilitated by Aziraphale having a bedroom to hand – and he certainly didn't want to pry into the reasons for that sudden disinterest.
> 
> [](note24)[3] Don't look at me, I'm not even a real footnote. I'm just here bc indie thought it looked weird to jump to [4] without me.
> 
> [4] And much to the surprise of the television.
> 
> [5] Scrowley.
> 
> [6] Not an entirely unfamiliar situation to Aziraphale, as it happened, though in his experience it had never been half so accidental.
> 
> [7] If God had intended him to do the washing up, She would have included a pair of rubber gloves in his corporation.
> 
> [8] “Fate encountered after short embrace,” (5)
> 
> [9] Not that he would name names. He would not name names.


	6. What Befalls Poor Walpole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, even after 6,000 years of practice, friendship can be tricky at times. Crowley meets Teddy, some uncomfortable truths are aired, Aziraphale does a biggo swear, and everyone gets home in time for tea and Netflix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? a sneaky mid-week update?? it's true!
> 
> this chapter's relatively short compared to the others, so i wanted to pop it up as a little extra. there'll be a big chapter [and when i say big, i mean.... phew] going up this sunday coming (26/07/20) but for now, hope yous enjoy this bit of silliness.
> 
> no cw to note as far as im aware, but as ever, if there's something im missing do just drop me a line and ill warn for it here.
> 
> if ur enjoying the story, come & say hello on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/)!

A few days later, Aziraphale was humming happily to himself as he pottered around the shop. The endorphins of his last conversation (if that was the right word) with Gen didn't seem to be wearing off any time soon. He'd woken up cheerful and stayed there. It helped that all but the most foolhardy customers had been fended off by the dreadful weather that had descended overnight. Wind and rain lashed against the windows, but inside all was cheerful calm. He moved between the shelves, nodding in time to the song that had been rattling around his head all morning.

“I am very good at integral and differential calculus, I know the scientific names of beings animalculus...”

He flipped a book over in his hand with a deft flick of his wrist, catching it on the beat.

“In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral...”

Lost as he was in his good mood, he didn't hear the shop door open, though the bell tinkled as warningly as it could. He continued singing to himself, peering through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose to read first this title, then the next.

“I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's,” he continued, getting into the swing of things now. “I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox.” He raised his voice, closed his eyes, smiling to himself as he rattled through the lines. “I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of-”

“You're in a good mood.”

Aziraphale shrieked, jumping almost a foot off the ground and sending an early edition of _The Castle of Otranto_ flying into the stacks. He span round to see Crowley leaning against a bookcase, hair wet with rain, grinning wickedly.

The demon spread his hands. “Be not afraid.”

“Crowley! The Walpole!”

“Oh, not the Walpole,” Crowley lamented, unconvincingly. “How awful, what befalls poor Walpole.”

“Sometimes, dear, I don't think you take my concerns very seriously.”

“Only sometimes?”

Aziraphale shot him a venomous look and went to fish the beleaguered Walpole, miraculously undamaged, from behind a stack of mid-century apologetics.

“I've come to take you for lunch,” Crowley called after him. “If you're up for it.”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “In this weather?”

“Would you believe, restaurants do still serve food when it's raining? Rather a necessity of doing business in these parts.”

“Gosh, aren't you witty today.”

“We could order something if you'd rather,” Crowley offered, in a tone that suggested he already knew what Aziraphale's answer would be.

“And drag someone else out into the wet on our behalf? Certainly not.”

“They're already out it in.”

“That's not the point. Haven't you seen the poor things, zipping about on their bicycles in all weather?”

Crowley tried to pull a sympathetic face. It didn't go well.[1] Before he could answer, he was interrupted by a crash from the front door.

“Yoohoo, Aziraphale! You in here?” called a voice.

Aziraphale wriggled his way out from behind the apologetics. “Just coming!” he called, pressing _The Castle of Otranto_ into Crowley's unresisting hands. “Pop that back would you, dear?” And he vanished in the direction of the door.

Crowley looked down at the book in his hands. Then he shoved it, spine facing inwards, between _Bricks and Flowers_ and _The Well of Loneliness_ , and strode off to investigate this yoohooing newcomer.

Aziraphale crouched beside the cardboard box that had been deposited in the middle of the shop floor, peering inside. Teddy stood beside him, hands in the pockets of their dungarees, wet hair swept back from their face.

“-opening it up and thought, that can't be right, must be one of yours,” they were saying.

Aziraphale beamed up at them. “Thank you, dear, you're quite right. Although,” he said, picking up a bound collection of James Joyce's correspondence, “some of these might not be altogether out of place next door.”

“Oh? I've never read any Joyce. Is he rude?” There was no denying the excitement in Teddy's voice.

“He was a dirty old bastard,” said Crowley, “and not half as clever as he thought he was.”

“Crow- Anthony!” said Aziraphale. He got to his feet with more effort than he would have liked to admit, and absolutely ignored the way Teddy's face lit up when they saw Crowley sloping out from between the shelves. “Anthony, dear, this is Teddy – they run the shop next door.”

“Right. Smut, isn't it?” said Crowley, reaching out to shake Teddy's hand.

“That's us! We branched out from erotic literature well before I took over, though. We've got all sorts now – toys, lingerie, sex games, DVDs, fetish gear – though we still keep a line of books as well, of course.”

“Of course,” smiled Crowley, not missing the blush creeping over Aziraphale's cheeks but quite misunderstanding its cause. “What's your bestseller?”

“Oh, dildos, easily,” said Teddy. The bracelets on their wrist jingled as they waved their hand. “They're a classic and hey, if it ain't broke. Though that doesn't mean they're boring, far from it – some of the non-phallic ones they're making these days are buck-wild. Dragon dicks, robot appendages, ovipositors – that's where you can roleplay being, um, not quite impregnated...”

Teddy rambled on, listing an increasingly unlikely number of non-traditional sex toys stocked by Intimate Books. As they went on, Crowley's eyebrows started to rise, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Aziraphale bit back a smile. He knew Crowley well enough to recognise that reaction – Crowley was shocked, and trying very hard not to show it. Well, thought Aziraphale, serves him right for trying to make the conversation awkward. Really, sometimes Crowley behaved as if he'd spent the last 6,000 years living under a particularly chaste and wholesome rock. After a minute or so, he took mercy on the demon.

"We were just heading out to lunch," he cut in when Teddy paused for breath. "Would you like to join us?"

Teddy's face fell. "I'd love to but I can't, I'm afraid. Got to mind the shop. Oh!" they said, a thought hitting them. They turned to Crowley. "How do you feel about Hallowe'en?"

"Best night of the year," he said with feeling.

"Fantastic! Chelsea - she works in the shop with me - we're going to a pub quiz to celebrate. Fancy dress and everything. Do you fancy it?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to politely decline, anticipating Crowley's disinterest. But before he could, Crowley answered Teddy himself.

"Yeah, why not?" he said with an easy smile. He raised his eyebrows at Aziraphale. "What do you say, angel? Get dressed up and paint the town red?"

"I, uh, that certainly sounds," Aziraphale stammered, wrong-footed for a moment by Crowley's enthusiasm.

"Oh, go on!" said Teddy. "You know Chelsea's dying to meet him."

"Is she indeed?" said Crowley, taken with the idea.

"Of course," said Teddy. "You're the famous Anthony, Aziraphale's told us all about you."

"No I haven't!”

"Alright, he hasn't," they confessed. Their eyes shone with a look Aziraphale had only ever seen in them before when they and Chelsea discussed Kardashians.[2] "But we see you all the time, coming in and out of the shop, and you always look so-” They cut off suddenly, as if their brain had just caught up with the mouth. They bit back a smile. “Well. Anyway. The fact is, Aziraphale's told us almost nothing and he always gets sort of flustered when you come up in conversation-”

“I do not!”

“So really, it's all a bit fascinating.”

"Fascinating," agreed Crowley. By now, his grin could only be described as 'shit-eating'. Aziraphale had had quite enough.

"Well my dear, it was lovely to see you," he said in a rather louder voice than necessary. "But I'm afraid we really must get moving if we're to make our reservation."

He took Teddy gently but firmly by the elbow and steered them towards the door.

"It was good to meet you, Anthony!" they called over their shoulder. "I'll see you at the quiz!"

"See you then!"

Once Teddy was safely escorted out, Aziraphale closed the front door and glared. Crowley held his hands up, all innocence.

"Don't look at me," he said. "I was only making conversation."

Aziraphale harrumphed as only the very English can.[3] "I don't know what you're up to, you wily old snake, but I know you're up to something."

"I'm not up to anything. Your friend invited us out and I agreed, what's so sly about that?"

"You've never shown any interest in spending time with my friends before," Aziraphale shot back. "In fact, you've always taken pains to tell me just how unbearable you found them."

"I have not. I don't remember the last-"

"You were absolutely beastly to poor Edward-"

"Which Edward?" said Crowley, narrowing his eyes.

"Forster, you never gave him a-"

"Forster was a drip!"

"-to mention the awful things you said to Gildas-"

"A millennium and a half ago, and all true."

"And Pyotr? What about him?"

Crowley opened his mouth to defend himself, then reconsidered. "Yeah, alright, I was a bit harsh to Pyotr," he conceded.

"The choreography just needed some tweaking!" Aziraphale said, with the air of one who knows he should Get Over It but hasn't for 127 years and has no intention of starting now. "He was upset for days."

Crowley didn't answer, though he muttered something that Aziraphale suspected involved the words 'drama queen'.

“Whatever mischief you're planning,” Aziraphale continued, “I'd thank you to leave my friends out of it.”

“I'm not planning anything,” said Crowley. The smile was starting to fade, something like frustration edging into his voice.

“I _like_ Teddy. They're sweet and funny and I enjoy spending time with them.”

“You mustn't spend that much time with them, if I've never met them.”

“Believe it or not, dear boy, I do continue to exist when you're not in the room.”

It came out cattier than he intended, and he braced for Crowley's cutting reply. But none came. Instead, Crowley pushed his hands into his pockets, skinny shoulders hunched forwards, and let his attention shift to the pile of books on the table nearest him. Aziraphale watched him, suddenly doubting himself. He thought he'd understood Crowley's motives, thought he'd spotted a wile and thwarted accordingly. But now, with Crowley's ears turning pink and his expression unreadable, he was no longer sure.

“You've,” he started. He licked his lips. “You've never wanted to meet them.”

Crowley shrugged, opening a copy of _The Man Who Was Thursday_ and leafing through the pages. “You never asked.”

Aziraphale was struggling to find solid ground. This wasn't how he'd expected the conversation to go. “Well, we don't- That is. We haven't exactly tended to have friends in common,” he tried, feeling slightly desperate.

“We've had a few.”

Crowley's voice was level, his body still in a way that it never usually was. He was always so expressive, his whole body carrying the meaning of his words. Aziraphale wished fervently he would wave his arms, wiggle his eyebrows, make the strange, garbled noises he was used to parsing in a conversation with Crowley. Anything but this careful, measured calm.

“We both ran with Will and the lads,” Crowley continued. “And with Enheduanna, and the Rossettis, and the crowd in Berlin-”

“Berlin was different.”

“Wittenberg, then,” said Crowley, not missing a beat.

“That was different!” Aziraphale insisted. “I mean, that's... We were... I mean, yes, if we both happened to meet someone then- But there's plenty of people you spent time with quite independently of me – Sappho, for one, and I never even met Leonardo, and I know you and he were-”

Crowley's hand fell still on the open page. The edge of the page pulled in towards the tension under his fingertips. Crowley hadn't looked up, hadn't raised his eyes the whole time they had been talking, but Aziraphale felt the needle-sharp point of his attention. He cleared his throat.

“Well. I know you were close,” he finished, half-heartedly. “My point is, I haven't met your friends either.”

“I don't have-” Crowley started, but cut himself off before he could finish. There was a horrible pause. “Different line of work, isn't it,” he mumbled eventually. He flipped the Chesterton closed and moved to look at another pile, turning his back on Aziraphale. “People are a damn sight less keen for me to stick around afterwards,” he said, so quietly that Aziraphale wasn't quite sure he was supposed to hear.

He felt dizzy. This was not at all what he had intended. The conversation had lurched somewhere dark and vulnerable and he didn't know what to say to bring it back. For a long, long time, there was no sound in the bookshop but the settling of dust and the drag of Crowley's fingertips over this page and that. Aziraphale's mouth moved, forming the shapes of all the wrong words. Crowley's back was a hard line, his shoulders high and tight. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, anything to help loosen that awful tension, but before he could, Crowley started moving towards the door, faster than Aziraphale could process.

“Forget it,” he said over his shoulder. “Forget I said anything. Tell your friend I won't be able to make it. I'll see you later.”  
Aziraphale stepped forwards, half reaching to stop him but Crowley was almost at the door already.

“What about lunch?” he said weakly.

“Get your own fucking lunch,” Crowley spat.

A rush of indignant anger surged through Aziraphale. It billowed through him like a fireball, thundering up from his stomach, burning his throat and blasting out of him before he could stop to think.

“Don't you fucking dare!” His voice rang out, absolute and righteous.

Crowley turned, too astonished to be angry. “Wh- What did you just say?”

“I said, don't you dare!” Already, Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushing scandalously at his audacity. But this was important. He pulled himself up to his full height, determined to be heard. “Don't you dare walk away from me when I've been absolutely appalling to you and dragged up all sorts of horrible things you didn't want to talk about and then tell me to forget about it. Don't you dare!”

Crowley stared. His hand slipped off the door handle. “I... What?”

Aziraphale didn't stamp his foot, but it was a close thing. “Crowley,” he demanded. “I am not some idiot co-worker you can shrug off when he offends you and never bring it up again. When I offend you, I bloody well expect you to hold me accountable. That's what friendship is, it isn't just letting someone off the hook all the time, it's letting them do the hard work of making it right. You're... Your friendship is very important to me,” he said, and it was sheer force of will that kept his voice steady as he spoke. “I expect you to treat it with the respect it deserves.”

For a moment, Crowley was too stunned to say anything. His face contorted as he tried to make sense of Aziraphale's outburst. “Is this an apology or a bollocking?”

The steam had gone out of Aziraphale a little. “Um. Both. I think.”

“Right.” There was a pause. Then Crowley said slowly, “I think for it to be an apology you have to actually, you know. Apologise.”

“I'm sorry.” The words came instantly, without hesitation. “I'm sorry, Crowley. I was rude and dismissive and, and unsympathetic. I would be very glad to introduce you to my friends. I'm absolutely sure they'll think you're quite as wonderful as- As you deserve,” he amended quickly.

Crowley considered. “Well. Bit of a backhander, but I'll take it.”

For the first time since the conversation had started to slip so dreadfully out of their grasp, their eyes met. Even through the sunglasses, Aziraphale could tell. He could always tell. Crowley's face softened.

“Do you still want lunch?” he offered.

“Yes please,” said Aziraphale meekly.

Crowley snorted. “Alright, give over. Penitence really doesn't suit you.”

There was something so open and fragile in Crowley's smile that Aziraphale felt the need to look away.

“I'll get my jacket,” he said, already moving towards the back room.

Crowley didn't answer, and as he walked away Aziraphale could have sworn he heard the demon sniff. He rushed into the back room. His jacket was on back of his chair but he stood for a moment before putting it on, trying to find his breath. That had been... Uncomfortable, yes, but exhilarating too, in a strange way. He fetched his coat and scarf down from the coat-stand. The Apocalypse might have been averted, but everything had shifted in the wake of its passing. It was a new world. Anything might happen. Even honesty.

When he came back out to the entrance, Crowley jumped. He'd had his hand to his face, as if he'd been... wiping his eyes? Aziraphale pushed the thought away. It seemed the decent thing to do.

"Did you know," said Aziraphale conversationally as he crossed the shop, keeping his attention fixed on buttoning his coat, "I once saw Walpole selling baubles by a whirlpool."

Crowley's eyebrows raised. Aziraphale met his gaze, and let a look of mischief steal over his face. To his relief, Crowley started to smile. Then he wrestled his face into the perfect straight-man expression.

"Is that so?" he said, in a tone of mild interest.

Aziraphale nodded, a smile itching at his mouth. "Mm. The poor fool's footstool slipped something awful and down went Walpole, quite mournful, into the whirlpool."

"And the baubles?"

"All poor Walpole's artful baubles fell in the awful whirlpool also."

Finally, Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale's heart lifted on a tide of warm affection and relief. Crowley held the door open for him and the cold, wet air blew away the straggling strains of awkwardness between them.

“You're ridiculous,” Crowley said as Aziraphale passed by him.

“You started it.”

And by the time they reached the Bentley they were bickering quite happily.

#

The rain was still beating down with a vengeance when Crowley dropped Aziraphale back at the shop. It had been a lovely lunch, which had eased seamlessly and with very little convincing into a lovely afternoon and topped off with a lovely dinner and a lift home through the sheeting rain. Now Aziraphale was tucked up in his flat once more with a mug of cocoa and the sound of the weather to keep him company. His spectacles were perched on the end of his nose and he peered, unconvinced, at the television. His phone buzzed.

'you in?'

'It's loading, I think,' he wrote back.

'ok so it'll come up saying 'who's watching', just pick your profile and then away you go'

Aziraphale frowned. 'I don't have a profile,' he started to write, but before he could the screen finally loaded.

Just as Crowley had described, “Who's Watching?” was written at the top of the screen with two boxes underneath. The first box was red with a smiley face in it. The off-centre placement of the face's mouth irked Aziraphale immediately upon seeing it.[4] The text beneath the red square said 'Crowley'. The second box had a picture of a cartoon unicorn, complete with flowing pink mane, and read, 'Angel'.

'Why am I a horse,' Aziraphale texted.

'its not a horse, its a unicorn. and it can fly!'

'I see.' A memory stirred in the back of Aziraphale's mind. 'He looks familiar. Was he in one of the cartoons you were watching here the other day?'

'didn't think you were paying attention,' Crowley answered. 'yeah, that's him. its a cool show, you might like it'

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. 'I don't think cartoons are quite my scene.'

'“““your scene””” consists entirely of mouldy old books, hot cocoa and ugly bow ties. it wouldn't do you any harm at all to stray beyond “““your scene”””'

'My books aren't mouldy,' Aziraphale wrote back, sipping his cocoa. 'And I'd rather wear “ugly” bow ties than dress like a cross between a Victorian widow and a Piccadilly rent boy.'

Almost immediately on sending this, his phone lit up with an incoming call. He answered with a prim, “Good evening, you're through to A.Z. Fell, how can I help?”

“A Piccadilly rent boy!?”

“Well, if the ludicrous trousers fit – or don't, as the case may be.”

“They're supposed to look like that,” Crowley insisted. “Just because you wouldn't know style if it jumped up and bit you on the-”

“My dear boy, if you can neither get in nor out of them without demonic intervention-”

“I assure you, I've never needed any help getting out of my trousers.”

Aziraphale snorted. “No, I'm sure,” he said.

“Besides,” Crowley continued, “I'm not going to take fashion advice from someone who hasn't bought a new outfit this side of the Great War. Even your insults are out of date – they don't have Dilly boys any more, all that stuff's online now.”

Aziraphale pulled a face, not sure Crowley's assessment was quite accurate. “Well, for the most part. I still do some work down that way.”

“Goodness me, angel, I wouldn't have thought you'd have it in you.”

“Ha ha. Not that kind of work. Just, you know, keeping an eye on things. Doing what I can.”

He'd been doing it for years – centuries, now he thought about it, doing his best against a tide of violence, addiction and exploitation. He had nothing against sex work, of course, it was a perfectly reasonable way to make a living. But so many of the boys at Piccadilly were just that – boys, young and vulnerable, forced to grow up too quickly and take what they could to make ends meet. A quiet space opened up between them as he considered the weight of those lives, and the lives of all those he hadn't been able to help. He could hear Crowley breathing at the other end of the phone.

After a long while, Crowley said, “I never, um. I never did much down there.”

Aziraphale smiled softly, recognising the disavowal for what it was. “I know, dear. Hardly your kind of thing. You were probably over in Heddon Street tempting bright young things into enthusiastic bouts of debauchery.”

Crowley laughed. “Oh, they never needed much tempting,” he said, and Aziraphale could hear the teeth in his smile.

“I don't remember seeing you,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully.

“Hmm?”

“On Heddon Street. Cave of the Golden Calf and all that. Surprising we didn't run into each other.”

“Honestly? Wasn't worth my time,” Crowley admitted. “Everyone there was already set on committing whatever sins they fancied.”

Aziraphale swirled his cocoa in his mug, tried to sound disinterested. “You never went for, uh... For personal reasons?”

There was a long pause. Aziraphale simultaneously wished he could see Crowley's face, and was fervently glad he couldn't.

Finally, Crowley said, “In my free time, you mean?”

“Mm.”

“Well. It's, um. It's not much-”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked,” Aziraphale said in a rush. “I'm butting in again.”

“No, angel, I don't mind,” Crowley started, but Aziraphale interrupted.

“Please, don't answer. It really isn't any of my business, and it was such a long time ago.”

“Aziraphale. It's fine. I was just going to say, a place like that isn't much fun if you don't have anyone to go with.”

Aziraphale cringed, cursing himself. That was what he'd been afraid Crowley was going to say. He'd put his foot in it again, bringing up questions of Crowley's personal life that he had no right dragging to the surface.

“I'm sorry,” he started, but Crowley spoke over him.

“I might have,” he said, “if I'd known you were there.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but found nothing to say.

“Oh,” he managed.

“Most things are more fun when you're there.”

At that, Aziraphale really did fall silent. It was nothing he hadn't already known, of course – there was a reason he and Crowley had spent the last 6,000 years in each other's company. But they didn't say it. They never said it out loud. He felt a sudden rush of warmth for Crowley, gratitude and pride and other things he didn't know how to name.

“I feel the same way,” he said. On the other end of the phone, Crowley laughed.

“I should bloody well hope so,” he said. “It'd be a bit awkward if it turned out you couldn't stand me.”

“Oh, you have your days, I assure you. But no, generally speaking, I quite like having you around.”

There was a huff of breath from Crowley. “Good,” he said. “I'm glad. And look at that – it only took us six millennia and most of Armageddon to say it out loud!”

Aziraphale curled himself around his cocoa. “You said I was your best friend,” he said, taking a mouthful. “After the fire."

“I remind you, I was under the influence of a great deal of alcohol at the time.”

“Of course.”

“Not to mention quite astonishing levels of stress.”

“Quite.”

“Besides, as you've been remarkably insistent on revealing today, you don't exactly have a lot of competition.”

“Whatever you say.”

“As soon as I make some other actual friends, it's over between us.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Catch me hanging out in a dusty old bookshop soon as I've got anywhere better to go.”

“Not painting yourself in the best light here, dear.”

“Consider it necessary honesty before turning over a new leaf. It's going to be my New Year's Resolution – new year, new me. I invented that, you know.”

“I know you did. Very fine work.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I'm going to watch television now, Crowley. Something terribly stuffy and boring that I'm sure your new friends wouldn't be caught dead watching. Quite possibly a documentary about something I already lived through.”

“Awful,” said Crowley cheerfully. “You're an abomination. Have a nice evening.”

“You too. And, Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“You're my best friend too.”

“I'm disgusted.”

“Goodnight, dear.”

For a moment, they sat together in silence, neither quite wanting to hang up. Then Crowley let out a breath.

“Night, angel,” he said softly, and he was gone.

Aziraphale brought the phone down from his ear and looked at it, hugging his mug to his chest. He was about to reach for his remote when a notification flashed up.

'planet earth 2 is really good, you shld check it out xx'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He had indeed seen the delivery riders, weaving through traffic, high vis food bags on their backs, headphones on their ears, and a deep disregard for traffic etiquette in their hearts. He hadn't hit one yet, but he remained optimistic.
> 
> [2] Aziraphale was not entirely sure about the nature of a Kardashian. He rather hoped it was a kind of doughnut.
> 
> [3] Angels may not technically have nationalities, but Aziraphale was, nevertheless, utterly and undeniably English. This was by neither naturalisation nor inclination, but rather by constitution. He was English on a molecular level. He had been English before Englishness was invented, and would continue to be English even after the country disintegrated into the sea in a flurry of imperialist self-aggrandising and over-boiled vegetables.
> 
> [4] Crowley was particularly proud of his work in the field of graphic design, and this was no exception. He denied having any hand in Comic Sans, however, though he did take full credit for Papyrus, blockbuster film posters, and the London 2012 Olympics logo.


	7. The Dread Ghost of Booksellers Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, Crowley, Teddy and Chelsea get dolled up in their Hallowe'en finery and head out for a night on the town. Expect bad puns, fun trivia, and a great deal of drunken silliness. And what's this? A moment of self-awareness from the nation's favourite angel? Sounds fake but ok.
> 
> EDIT: now with FANART of the boys in their spoopy costumes!
> 
> [This one](https://mehrto.tumblr.com/post/625735803386167297/so-uuuh-i-might-have-binge-read-indieninja92s) from [mehrto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/pseuds/mehrto)  
> [This one](https://mortifyingideal.tumblr.com/post/626190836291551233/what-are-you-supposed-to-be-crowley-was-done-up) from [mortifyingideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/pseuds/mortifyingideal)  
> and [this one](https://hollow-head.tumblr.com/post/627847310645280768/very-quick-drawing-for-what-might-be-the-filthiest) from [laideur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur)!
> 
> Thank you all very very very much, you're beautiful people and beautiful artists :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps the roof of this chapter* this baby can fit so much banter and yearning in it B) and well it might, at over 10.5k words OOPS sorry not sorry, sometimes u just need to write an entire pub quiz bc it's plague season and all u want in the world is to be in a crowded bar wearing a silly costume and getting drunk with ur pals while u flex ur trivia muscles ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> cws for this chapter: alcohol consumption, drunkenness, masturbation, smoking tobacco. as always, let me know if you come across anything that could do with a specific warning, or if there's anything in here that you feel ought to be in the fic's tags.
> 
> i suppose one thing to be aware of is some lgbt stereotypes? but all in good-humour and coming from a place of gently teasing my own queer family rather than any unpleasantness, because let us be honest, in a pub quiz in a gay bar we all know who's going to win the sports round lol
> 
> there are also some truly, truly dreadful puns in this. im not sorry. if ur mad abt them, come yell at me on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) lol

'what r u wearing?'

Aziraphale scooped up his phone from the top of his desk and smiled at the message. A shiver of excitement ran through him – he and Gen had spoken a handful of times over the last few weeks, and he rather felt like his body was starting to develop a Pavlovian response to Gen's messages. He was halfway through typing an appropriately flirtatious reply when his brain finally caught up with what his eyes were actually seeing on the screen. Realisation hit him like a bucket of cold water.

“Oh, crumbs!” he squeaked, frantically backspacing to erase his reply, mercifully unsent.

He pressed the phone to his rapidly pounding heart and tried to catch his breath. Thank Someone he'd noticed before he hit send. It wasn't a Grindr message he was replying to – it was a text, from the one person who would absolutely never let him live it down if he'd replied in the manner he'd been about to.

He was still trying to breathe properly when his phone buzzed again. Trust Crowley never to send one text when three would do the trick.

'you'd better not have just dug up some old thing from the back of your wardrobe and pretended its a costume, that's cheating'

'omg u shld dress as a sexy demon lol'

This last was followed quickly by a slightly blurry selfie of Crowley pursing his lips in an exaggerated pout. Aziraphale huffed a little laugh, finally able to compose himself enough to reply.

'It would be a bit late to change my outfit now, even if I had repurposed something I had lying around.'

'youre literally an angel, you cld just miracle urself a pair of leather trousers'

'pls miracle urself some leather trousers'

'angel i will pay u cash money if u wear leather trousers tonight'

'As offers go, someone with infinite resources promising “cash money” to another person with infinite resources might not be quite the temptation you think it is.'

'booooo ur no fun'

'So you've been telling me for the last few millennia. Are you planning to come here before going to the pub? Teddy, Chelsea and I are going to walk round together, it's not far.'

'yh alright ur still no fun tho'

'Fine. Please, tell me what you're going to dress up as tonight.'

'u rlly want to know?'

'I assure you I could not bear the burden of my ignorance a moment more. I simply must know.'

'im going as..............'

As soon as the blocks of ellipses started coming into his inbox, Aziraphale threw his phone aside in disgust. At least he wouldn't give Crowley the satisfaction of a 'read' notification.

#

Crowley arrived at the shop a couple of hours after Aziraphale had closed up for the day. The door had been locked, but that didn't stop Crowley, who never expected to be locked out of the bookshop and so never was.[1] Aziraphale, who was upstairs putting the finishing touches to his costume, heard him enter and rushed to crack the door to the flat so he could call out.

“That you, Crowley?”

“Who else would it be?” came the reply. “Shall I come up?”

“No need, I'll be down in a tick.”

He heard an affirmative grunt from downstairs, and hurried through the last of his preparations. When everything was in place, he checked himself in the mirror one final time and left the flat as quietly as he could, pulling the door gently closed behind him. He took his time down the stairs, well enough acquainted with them to know exactly where to step so they didn't creak. Silently, carefully, he inched his way down. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused to check that the coast was clear, poking his head out of the stairwell.

Crowley was out on the shop floor. He had his back to Aziraphale and was staring at his phone, texting or playing one of his mindless games to kill the time. He didn't seem to have heard Aziraphale come in. Perfect.

Aziraphale stepped down into the shop and raised his arms. Then, in the spookiest tone he could manage:

“Wooooooo!”

With a start, Crowley span round to see where the noise was coming from. As soon as he saw Aziraphale, his face broke out into a delighted grin.

“You can't be serious,” he laughed.

“Wooooooo! I am the dread ghost of booksellers past! Wooooooo!”

Crowley's head knocked back as he laughed out loud. The sheet over Aziraphale's head made navigating the shop floor a little trickier than usual, even with the two eye holes he'd cut out, but he did his best, wooing spookily all the while. Finally, he came to a stop. He gave his arms an extra wiggle for good measure.

“Woo!”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, still laughing. Aziraphale couldn't quite catch what he said next, but it sounded like it might have included the word 'adorable'. Under his sheet, Aziraphale flushed, the heat of it billowing over his chest. He pulled his head clear, pink-cheeked and beaming.

“Did I scare you?”

“Oh, terrified. You're positively bone-chilling. Are you really wearing that?”

“Goodness me, no. Can't drink from under a sheet.” He pulled the rest of the sheet away, dropping it onto a nearby table, and spread his arms. “Ta-da!”

Crowley took one look at him, and burst out laughing.

“I'm a pumpkin!” Aziraphale said happily, the sound of Crowley's enjoyment making him giddy.

He was quite proud of his costume, simple as it was. He wore a black turtle neck, black leggings and plain black trainers, and over the top a sleeveless orange dress that fell to the tops of his thighs. The dress had black satin shapes sewn onto the front to make the face of a grinning jack o' lantern. He'd added a pair of thick black socks that bunched around his ankles in deference to the October night, and topped the ensemble off with a little orange hat, complete with “vine”, perched at a jaunty angle on top of his fluffy white hair.

“You're a pumpkin,” Crowley repeated weakly. “Of course you are.” He sighed happily, coming down from his fit of giggles. “Alright, let's have a look at you.”

He ran his eyes up and down Aziraphale, the look on his face mingling together fondness, admiration, and amusement. Aziraphale couldn't help a happy little wriggle as he stood, awaiting Crowley's assessment. He even tilted his head to be sure Crowley had seen the hat. Crowley put his hands on his hips, trying to look stern and failing entirely.

“You're not very scary,” he said.

“I'll be honest, dear boy, I didn't quite think I'd be able to pull it off if I tried something actually horrifying. So I went the other way instead.”

“The other way?”

“Mm, Chelsea says there are two kinds of Hallowe'en costumes. I couldn't do the scary kind, so I did the other one.”

He managed to keep a completely straight face as Crowley tried to fill in the blanks. He clearly needed a clue. Aziraphale stuck out a leg and struck what might have passed for a coquettish pose if the coquette in question had been suffering late stage arthritis. Realisation dawned on Crowley's face.

“Sexy? You're a sexy pumpkin? In a polo neck and- Are those leg-warmers?”

Aziraphale couldn't hold it in any longer. He cracked up, laughing until tears came to his eyes.

“Oh, God, I thought you were serious!” Crowley spluttered. “I really thought for a second you thought this was a sexy costume!”

Aziraphale tried to speak.

“Gourd,” he started, and was immediately overtaken with giggles. He gasped for breath, tried again. “G... Gourd your loins!”

Crowley sank his head into his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Someone have mercy,” he groaned.

It took a long time for them to stop laughing. Eventually Aziraphale wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed.

“Of course I'm very hurt and offended that you don't think I look completely ravishing,” he said.

“Ravishing? No. It is, uh...”

“Hmm?”

Crowley shrugged, almost convincingly nonchalant. “It's quite cute, I suppose.”

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. He blinked, blushed, and promptly changed the subject.

“What are you supposed to be?”

Crowley was done up what Aziraphale might have described as “his finest genderpunk regalia” if he had been an entirely different person with an entirely different vocabulary and set of cultural references. As it was, the best he could do was “tarty goth”, though he was aware that it wasn't a description to share with Crowley.

He'd seen the leather jacket Crowley was wearing before, though not, he thought, since the early 90s. It was black and hung huge on Crowley's skinny frame in a way that he was sure was intentional, though he couldn't personally see the appeal of wearing clothes that didn't fit. The generous folds of the jacket emphasised Crowley's slim body, especially his narrow, boney wrists where they jutted out from the sleeves, which he had pushed up to his elbows presumably for just this effect. Silver rings and bracelets flashed in the low light of the bookshop, adding a touch of glamour to the ensemble. Under the jacket, Aziraphale could make out a scrappy white t-shirt, tight and knotted at the side so it rode just a hair higher than was quite decent, and a flash of something red beneath.

Finally, Aziraphale brought himself to consider the lower half of Crowley's costume - a pair of cut-off black denim shorts that barely reached the tops of his thighs, and beneath those the enticing stretch of stocking suspenders clipped onto a pair of ripped and tattered fishnets. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for Aziraphale's eyes to make the long journey down the endless stretch of Crowley's legs, finally reaching a pair of knee length black boots that would have looked as at home in the black bloc as the sex club. By the time he'd taken it all in, Aziraphale felt as if it had been a genuine physical exertion. He fought to keep his reaction off his face.

“Not what I'd call 'scary,'” he pointed out. “Unless your arrival had been prefaced with, 'No, Mum, I really love him, trust me it's serious he's the one.'”

Something even more serpentine than usual was happening to Crowley's spine. He took a step forwards that was all hips and attitude, his smile just barely showing a flash of white teeth. “Why, thank you.”

“For what?” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

Crowley stepped closer. “Well,” he said, “if it's not scary then that must mean you think it's the other kind...”

Aziraphale could feel the blood in his cheeks, but he refused to pander to Crowley's ridiculous sense of humour. “If this is what passes for ‘sexy’ these days,” he said, “then I despair of the state of romance.”

“Believe it or not, angel, many people nowadays acknowledge a subtle difference between sex and romance.”

“Have it your way. You're an indictment of modern eroticism.”

“I'm going to get that on a t-shirt.”

Crowley moved closer still, messy eyeliner and laughter making his golden eyes glitter. Aziraphale could smell his aftershave, a warm, heady scent that always made Aziraphale faintly hungry. He swallowed, avoiding Crowley's eyes.

“There's more to seduction than strutting around with all your wares on show,” he said, though the stern tone he'd been reaching did not quite come through.

“Such a prude, honestly. My ankles are still covered and everything.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, but the tension between them did not break. “Thank goodness for that,” he said. He licked his lips, tried to think what to say next. “No sunglasses?”

“No need. Hallowe'en, isn't it. Looking spooky's what it's all about.”

Crowley was close enough now that Aziraphale would hardly have to raise his hand to touch him. He could feel the heat kicking off Crowley's body – or perhaps it was his own body, heart beating hard enough to make the front of his dress tremble. He tried to remember how to breathe.

“You didn't,” he started, but his throat wasn't quite co-operating. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You didn't answer me. Before. When I asked what you're supposed to be.”

Crowley grinned, easy and intoxicating. “Vampire,” he said, like it was obvious.

It was then Aziraphale noticed the sharp points of Crowley's canines, flashing where they caught the light. Crowley tilted his head slightly, baring his teeth to give Aziraphale a proper look. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed on Aziraphale with the steady, unblinking gaze of a snake. Aziraphale raised his eyes, examined the newly-grown fangs. His hand started to move of its own accord. He hesitated.

“May I?”

Crowley nodded. Gently, Aziraphale cupped Crowley's face in the palm of his hand, ostensibly holding it at a better angle. Crowley's face was warm to the touch, and where Aziraphale's fingertips rested against his ear the skin felt impossibly hot. He moved his thumb, stroking over Crowley's cheekbone, and Crowley's eyes fluttered shut even as he held his mouth slightly open.

Aziraphale swallowed hard around the tightness in his chest. “Very... very fine work.”

Crowley opened his eyes, startling gold and beautiful. “Thanks,” he said.

Dimly Aziraphale was aware that now was the time for him to bring his hand away – to step backwards and let time and normality re-establish themselves. But the part of him that knew that was very, very far away and he could hardly hear its voice. Instead, he stared at Crowley's face, his thumb still running soft back and forth across his cheek. He could see the freckles on Crowley's nose. The lines around his eyes and mouth, marks of millennia spent laughing. The creases of his lips. The shine of his teeth. The shadow of hot tongue behind them.

“Yoohoo!”

A bang on the window, the sound of the door handle rattling. Aziraphale dropped his hand like it was burnt, stepping backwards so quickly he walked straight into a table.

“Ow! Oh, that hurt!” The banging came again. Aziraphale pulled a face. “I forgot I'd locked the door.”

He rubbed hard at the sore spot where the corner of the table had jabbed into him. Crowley stared at him, then blinked, seeming to come back to himself.

“Uh. Right. The door.”

“I'll let them in, shall I?” Aziraphale said, just a touch snippily.

He made his way over, hobbling as he tried to rub life back into his hip. He took the chance to compose himself before flicking the latch and holding the door open for Teddy and Chelsea to tumble inside.

“Aziraphale!” Chelsea cried, throwing up her hands. She pulled Aziraphale into a hug and kissed him on the cheek.

Aziraphale threw himself into the distraction, pushing away his feelings about... whatever it was that had just passed between him and Crowley.

“Hello, my dear,” he said warmly, kissing her and Teddy in turn.

“Oh my God, Aziraphale, you look adorable,” Teddy said as they hugged their hello. They took a step back and held him  
at arms length to look him up and down. “Oh, you're too cute!”

“You look rather splendid yourself.”

Teddy was dressed as witch, complete with a pointed hat and a swirling, shimmering dress embroidered with stars and moons that billowed out as they span on the spot. “Isn't it gorgeous? And look at the shoes!”

Aziraphale closed the door and let Teddy link their arm through his as they made their way over to where Chelsea and Crowley were making their introductions. Crowley was smiling, warm and genuine, the moment between them apparently forgotten. He and Chelsea were swapping compliments over their respective costumes.

“Those contacts are amazing, where'd you get them?” cooed Chelsea.

“Same place as the fangs.”

“And what are you supposed to be, dear?” said Aziraphale.

Chelsea held her arms wide and grinned. “I'm upside down!”

It was a remarkable effort. Through the careful use of wire sewn into her clothes, Chelsea had given herself the look of someone hanging upside down. The laces of her trainers trailed upwards towards the ceiling, her skirt hung upside down around her waist revealing a pair of cycling shorts, “To protect my modesty!” On top, her sweatshirt ruched up around her waist and seemed to reach up from her shoulders and collarbone to give the impression of being subject to a quite different gravity.

“How'd you get your hair like that?” asked Crowley.

“Wire in the plait,” said Chelsea, bending her vertical ponytail at an angle to illustrate the point. “Teddy's idea.”

“Very clever,” Aziraphale said approvingly.

“Aw, thanks,” said Teddy, squeezing Aziraphale's arm fondly. “Though maybe let's wait until the end of the quiz till we make any great pronouncements about how clever we might be!”

#

Aziraphale was relieved to find the pub was exactly that – a pub, complete with dark wood finishings and clusters of chairs around low, round tables. He'd brave many things for his friends, up to and including the end of the world, but he drew the line at nightclubs.

The pub walls were covered in pictures of gay icons through the ages, mostly actors and pop stars though there was a not inconsiderable number of historical figures scattered among them. As they pushed through the crowds, Crowley nudged Aziraphale and nodded at a painting of St Sebastian, all milky skin and twink physique.

“He never looked that good when I knew him,” he said, his lips close to Aziraphale's ear to be heard over the din.

Aziraphale laughed, ignoring the sensation that shivered through him at the feel of Crowley's breath on his ear.

“I'll get the seats if you get the first round?” he offered brightly.

“Deal.”

As soon as Teddy and Chelsea had told Crowley their drinks order, he peeled off to make his way to the bar. The pub was heaving with zombies, vampires, characters from television programmes Aziraphale couldn't even guess at, and a gamut of sexy nurses, witches and Red Riding Hoods from every point on the gender spectrum and beyond. Fake cobwebs and foil decorations hung from the ceiling – bats and pumpkins, black and orange tinsel, plastic spiders bouncing on elastic webs. It looked wonderful, and Aziraphale felt a flush of excitement for the evening ahead.

They made their way to a table against the far wall that had just become miraculously free. It was perfectly situated, close enough to the action to appreciate the party atmosphere but set aside enough that they could hear each other easily.

“Anthony's nice,” said Chelsea as they took their seats.

Teddy, who was adjusting their hat in their reflection in a nearby portrait, hummed their agreement.

“You're only saying that because he's buying you a drink,” said Aziraphale.

“I am not,” said Chelsea. “We talked on the walk down here – he's good craic. What does he do for a living?”

“I'm... not sure,” Aziraphale admitted.

“You're kidding?” said Teddy, rejoining the conversation, hat placement satisfactory.[2] “How long have you been... whatever you are with him?”

“Friends,” Aziraphale said firmly. “We're friends. And he changed roles recently, I'm, uh, not sure of the details. Here, ask him yourself.”

“Ask me what?” said Crowley, manoeuvring his way out of the crowds with a tray of drinks and setting them down. Teddy and Chelsea took their glasses while Crowley passed Aziraphale a pint of stout. “Wine menu's not up to much,” he said by way of explanation. “Thought you'd prefer this.”

“Thank you, my dear. Chelsea was wondering what you do for a living.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows as he sipped his own pint. He set the glass down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Consultant. In the City.”

Chelsea's face fell. “Oh,” she said.

“Not very punk of me, I'm afraid,” said Crowley, grinning. “Perhaps if an opening comes up in the shop you could put in a good word for me.”

Chelsea and Teddy laughed, and when Aziraphale caught Crowley's eye he couldn't help smiling too. He took a drink of his stout – and his eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, that's delicious,” he said, savouring the thick, chocolate-coffee flavour. He took another mouthful, humming with pleasure. “What's yours?”

“Pale ale. Here,” said Crowley, handing Aziraphale the glass, watching him carefully as he took a sip. Crowley's pint was hoppy and hay-like – it tasted like a meadow, sharp notes of citrus striking a lovely counterpoint. Aziraphale relished it, stealing a second sip before handing it back.

“I always forget you know your beers,” he said fondly.

“Had to learn, didn't I, spending time with a picky old tart like you.”

“Picky-!”

On the other side of the table, quite unseen by either of the bickering pair, Teddy and Chelsea caught each other's eye.

“Friends,” Teddy mouthed, rolling their eyes.

They had just enough time to pick a team name – 'We're Only Here For The Boos' – and get themselves organised before the hostess walked out and took her place at the end of the bar, microphone in hand. She was in full Hallowe'en drag, dressed as Ursula the Sea Witch if Ursula had made her lair in an abandoned glitter factory. A few ribald jokes and some banter with the crowd, and the quiz began in earnest.

The first round, Current Affairs, went easily. Between the four of them there was enough overlap in their various interests that they had a decent range across politics, recent headlines, and celebrity news. The second round was General Knowledge, and again, each had their moment to shine – Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to process the question about ‘MySpace Tom’ without Teddy and Chelsea's help, let alone answer it.

When the question came about which percentage of the crew and passengers of the Titanic survived, Crowley leant in to answer before the hostess had even finished speaking.

“31.6%,” he said, absolutely certain. He looked up when nobody moved to write it down. “What? Call it a, uh, professional interest.” He caught Aziraphale's eye and winked.

“Professional interest, indeed,” Aziraphale muttered into his drink. He knew for a fact Crowley had been stirring up strikes in the West End at the time, though no doubt he'd taken credit for everything from the iceberg to Celine Dion.

Chelsea got the next round in, and proved invaluable during the Music round where she answered so many questions so quickly that eventually Teddy simply handed her the pen and left her to it.

“So, Teddy,” said Crowley, when it became clear that the rest of them could take the round off. “How'd you get into sex toys?”

“Same way as everyone else, to begin with,” Teddy replied, taking a drink of vodka and cranberry, their wrist delicately angled to match their beautiful posture. “I already had a few of my own and then ended up getting a job in Ann Summers after I left uni. Got bored selling edible underwear to straight, cis women and their ugly husbands, so I started looking into the more, eh, independent side of things.”

“More kinky, you mean,” said Crowley with a smile.

“Not necessarily! Though...”

“Hey, I'm not judging. It's a necessary service, I'm sure.”

“Absolutely. Everybody needs a box of tricks – ask Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale did not snort stout up his nose, because he was a being created of holy grace and cosmic elegance. Whether the noise he made instead was quite so graceful and elegant was up for debate.

“Aziraphale has a box of tricks?” said Crowley with an expression Aziraphale had learnt to watch out for.

“Oh, I've sold him all sorts,” Teddy said, picking up on the teasing tone immediately. They leant across the table and continued in a whisper, all camp conspiracy. “He's a bit of a connoisseur, as it happens. I keep saying he should do reviews or something but he never will.”

“Never say never, angel,” grinned Crowley. “You could be a YouTube phenomenon.”

Aziraphale shot him a look so dirty it could have knocked the feathers off a cherub at 50 paces. Crowley only smiled wider.

“I meant to ask,” said Teddy, twirling a strand of hair in their fingers, innocence discredited by the mischief in their eyes. “How's the new Progasm treating you?”

“The Progasm!” Crowley repeated delightedly. “You own something called a Progasm!”

Clearly, this called for desperate measures.

“If you two don't stop trying to embarrass me,” Aziraphale said, “you can count me out for the Art and Literature round.”

Teddy and Crowley exchanged looks. “Don't suppose you're a big reader are you, Anthony?”

“'fraid not. Worth it anyway?”

“If you two idiots sabotage our team for the sake of making fun of Aziraphale's butt plugs,” said Chelsea darkly, “I assure you, there will violence.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Aziraphale. “Now. One of you horrible creatures buy me another drink, and we'll call it even.”

Science and Nature came next. Crowley lit up, pulling his chair in to better give his answers to Teddy, who had regained custody of the pen due to their impeccable handwriting.[3]

The hostess read out the first question. “What is the name of the closest layer of atmosphere to the earth's surface?”

“Troposphere,” said Crowley immediately.

“Are you sure?” said Teddy, pen hesitating over the page. Crowley pulled an incredulous face.

“Yes, I'm bloody sure. Exosphere, thermosphere, mesophere, stratosphere, troposphere,” he listed, ticking them off on his fingers.

Chelsea laughed as Teddy dutifully filled in the answer. “Bloody hell. Can you do all of Father Christmas's reindeer too?”

Crowley went on to confidently answer questions that ranged from the location of the Island of Reil to the number of eyes that a bee has. With every answer he gave, his cheeks grew more flushed with success, try as he might to maintain his facade of cool. By the time he was naming Edward Jenner as the inventor the smallpox vaccine, he was pink with schoolboyish pride.

Aziraphale couldn't take his eyes off him. He knew he was staring, but there was something so entirely enthralling about seeing Crowley demonstrate his knowledge. There was nothing ironic in Crowley's excitement – he simply liked plants, and animals, and space, and people. He was, always had been, earnestly and entirely interested in the world.

“Did she say on a planet?” he was whispering. “It's different if she means... Hang on, I'll ask.” He turned around in his seat and waved at the hostess. “'Scuse me! Did you say planet, or in the solar system?”

“Ooh, hello, clever clogs! You're a bit gorgeous, aren't you? The question was, what planet is the tallest mountain in the solar system on?”

“Thanks! You're not so bad yourself,” he added with a theatrical wink.

“Oh, stop it, flattery will get you nowhere,” scolded the hostess. “I am, however, open to bribes.”

Crowley laughed and turned back to the table. “It's Mars,” he said confidently. “There's a higher mountain in a crater on an asteroid, but if she's asking for planets then it's definitely Olympus Mons on Mars.”

“Gosh,” said Aziraphale, swaying slightly in his seat. He took a steadying drink of beer.

There was one question in the Science and Nature round which Aziraphale knew the answer to – what is the name of the fossilised tree resin often used in jewellery and decoration. But thinking of the answer made him of the colour, and the jolt of pleasure the sight of it caused in him, which made him think of the fact it had once been named after beams of sunlight and static electricity, and with that he was lost entirely.

He still hadn't found his tongue by the time the Geography round started, though the other three handled themselves perfectly ably without him.

“Everyone else drives on the right,” Chelsea was insisting with the cheerful belligerence of the slightly drunk. She had her elbows on her knees and pointed one stubby finger firmly at the answer sheet as she spoke. “Like in America.”

“No, I'm sure it's the left,” Teddy was insisting. “Hangover from the old whatsit. Colonialism. Victoria and that lot, sticking their noses in.”

“I think you're right,” Crowley said. He started to shrug off his leather jacket. “They were never in the Empire but there was plenty of British influence.”

“Ah, suit yourselves,” said Chelsea, taking a swig of her beer and sprawling back in her seat.

Crowley wriggled his arms out of his sleeves, letting the jacket fall onto the back of his chair before leaning forwards again to rest his elbows on the table. A flash of colour caught Aziraphale's eye.

“Oh, good Lord!”

Crowley's attention snapped round immediately. “What? Are you alright?”

“You're... For goodness' sake, Cro- Anthony,” Aziraphale amended quickly.

Crowley frowned, looking around for the source of Aziraphale's consternation. Then he realised. “What? This?”

He brought his fingers to his waist and pulled at the red lace garter belt that sat in full view above the waistline of his shorts. Aziraphale blushed, quite as bright as the belt itself, and pulled his eyes away.

“How else am I going to keep my stockings up?” Crowley laughed.

“You're absolutely shameless.”

“That's me.”

The interval came at the end of that round, giving people time to get some more drinks in, pop to the loo, and have a go at the picture round.

“What's the theme?” asked Teddy, pulling the sheet of low resolution pictures over to have a closer look.

“'Unusual Fruits,'” said Crowley.

Chelsea laughed. “Seems fitting. They got a picture of you on there, Aziraphale?”

“Ha ha. And to think, I was worried the three of you wouldn't get on.”

“If there's one thing you can count on your friendsss bonding over, it's making fun of you,” said Crowley, enough pints in to let slip the first hiss of the evening.

Aziraphale tutted, but there was no malice in it. Truth be told, he was thrilled. He was warm and drunk and happy, surrounded by people he loved and having fun. Chelsea went to the bar and when she came back, he raised his pint and announced a toast.

“To friendship,” he said simply.

They toasted, cheered, and drank, and Teddy stood, slightly wobbly on their high heels, and leant over to press a kiss to the top of Aziraphale's head. When they sat back down again, Aziraphale took their hand in his and squeezed, full of fuzz and fondness.

“At the risk of sounding positively saccharine,” he said, the words running together slightly, “I really am very fond of all of you.”

“Same here, mate,” said Chelsea, raising her glass in salute.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, his voice warm and quiet. “Sssame here.”

“Alright, gaydies and gentlethems,” announced the hostess. “Round Six, ready or not – Art and Literature!”

“Your time to shine, angel!”

“Oh, really, I doubt I'll know more than half-”

He was cut off by a chorus of jeers, and someone (he suspected Chelsea) threw a friendly beermat at his head.

“According to Shakespeare – definitely queer, by the way, a straight man could never – whose horse was named White Surrey?”

The faces around the table looked expectantly at Aziraphale.

“Richard III,” he said promptly. “But I'm sure any one of you could have answered that.”

“I am reminded,” said Crowley, “of something a young man once said about lamps and bushels.” He leant closer, his chin in his hand, looking up at Aziraphale unblinking. “You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden.”

The fairy lights twinkled in Crowley's eyes, beer and happiness softening everything around him. His words sounded more earnest than Aziraphale knew what to do with. Beneath the table, the side of his leg pressed against Aziraphale's, though Crowley didn't seem to notice.[4] Aziraphale opened his mouth to squeak about pride and falls and wily old serpents, but was interrupted by the hostess.

“Who painted 'The Laughing Cavalier?'”

Crowley raised his eyebrow expectantly at Aziraphale. For a moment, Aziraphale tried to object. Then he crumpled. “Oh, Frans Hals, of course.”

“Of course,” smiled Crowley as Teddy dutifully noted the answer down.

Questions came and went, and Aziraphale handled them each in their turn. The Uffizi Gallery, a tittle, Getafix, Edvard Eriksen – Teddy's beautiful handwriting marched confidently across the page for question after question.

The next round did not go so smoothly.

“This is homophobic,” moaned Teddy, their face buried in the crook of their arm. “They aren't even gay sports.”

Chelsea sighed, listless fingers running through Teddy's hair in an attempt at comfort. Even her ponytail was wilting.

“Who were the runners up in the Europa League Final of 2010?” asked the hostess to a room of people having flashbacks of Christmas dinners sat next to their heterosexual cousin. The only group who seemed to be enjoying themselves was a table of women with short hair and shorter fingernails, frantically scribbling down answers.

Aziraphale pushed back his chair. “I'll get another round,” he said, grim-faced, and was met by a collective groan of despondent thanks.

He staggered a little as he made his way to the bar, avoiding fairy wings and devils' tails as best he could. He gave his order to a rippling, shirtless Frankenstein's monster, bolts jutting out of a neck the size of a Redwood tree.

“Runs in the family,” came a voice behind him. Crowley edged himself into the gap beside Aziraphale and smiled, beery and lopsided. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale, smiling back. “You're drunk.”

“I'm... Unsssober. Thought I'd come give you a hand with the drinksss.”

“That's very sweet, thank you.” Slowly, as his brain caught up with his ears, Aziraphale's brow crinkled. “What did you say? About the bartender?”

“I sssaid, it must run in the family.”

Aziraphale's frown did not lift. “What must?”

A twinkle came into Crowley's eyes. “Bodybuilding.”

It took a moment for the meaning to filter through. When it landed, Aziraphale made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh.

“That's awful,” he protested.

“Positively monstrousss,” Crowley grinned. “C'mere, your hat's crooked.”

Obligingly, Aziraphale dipped his head to let Crowley put him to rights. His eyes fell on Crowley's waist, and the stretch of skin where his t-shirt rode up on his hips. He wanted not to look,[5] but the part of his brain that took charge of that sort of thing had clearly fallen into a drunken stupor earlier in the night. The garter belt was snug enough to press the spare softness of Crowley's hips in slightly under its pressure, the lace flat against his body showing sparks of skin through its loops and whorls. Somehow that skin, half-hidden under lace, was more enrapturing than if it had been bare. It had been a long time since Aziraphale had felt lace underneath his tongue. He could almost feel the shape of it now.

“All done!”

Aziraphale lurched his mind to safer ground. He admired Crowley's handiwork in the mirror behind the bar.

“Thank you, dear boy.”

“No problem.” Sprout recomposed, Crowley turned to face out from the bar, elbows propped up behind him. “Well done on the lassst round.”

Aziraphale waved the compliment away. “It was just showing off, really.”

“Yeah, well. I don't get to see you show off much. I liked it.”

A smile leapt onto Aziraphale's face, quite unbidden. He tried to look modest. “Oh, no, I'm sure I was a terrible bore...”

Crowley put on a squeaky, lisping voice that Aziraphale knew from long association to be a mockery of him. “Oh, it's sssuch a terrible burden, always being the cleveressst person in the room, I sssimply can't ssstand it!”

“I hardly think I'm the cleverest-”

“Of course you are, you silly mare. Stop fishing for complimentsss.”

They lapsed into companionable quiet – or as quiet as the hubbub of the pub would allow. Then a thought came to Aziraphale and his mouth twisted with worry.

“Is it quite fair, do you think? Us, doing a pub quiz, I mean. It feels like we have something of an unfair advantage, given... Well. Us.”

Crowley considered the question. “I think,” he started. The hulking Frankenstein returned with four drinks and Crowley passed two to Aziraphale with a smile. “I think it's alright,” he said, “as long as we're shit-faced.”

“Ah. In that case – bottoms up!”

After that, things started to go downhill for We're Only Here For The Boos. For most of the night, their main competition had been a gaggle of variegated queers sat near the bar operating under the name Edgar Allen Hoes. Both suffered at the hands of the Sports round, and the stolid lesbians of Ghouls Just Want To Have Fun enjoyed a brief moment in the spotlight as the only team to know their muffed punts from their sticky wickets. When the History round was announced, Aziraphale and Crowley shared a smug look and readied themselves for a rather impressive display. Things did not, however, go quite as expected.

“1709. No, 1706. No- No, wait... Wait... Oh, I remember I'd just bought that absolutely darling justaucourt, d'you remember, with the blue silk and the, the-”

“Oh fuck, yeah, the uh... Whatsit...”

“Dahlias, I think. Or peonies?”

“Peonies,” said Crowley with absolute certainty. “I r'member, they went all up your back.”

“There you go then, peonies. Pop it down, Teddy, darling. Peonies it is. Def'nitely.”

“Um,” said Teddy, trying not to laugh. “I don't think...”

“No, it was!” Crowley interrupted. “Sorry, don't mean to ssshout. Sorry.” He continued in a stage whisper. “It wasss def'nitely them, Ted, 'cause I remember him prancing about looking like he'sss covered in little pink cabbagesss, telling everyone how much he lovesss peoniesss.”

“I do love peonies!”

Teddy and Crowley collapsed into snorting giggles. Aziraphale looked helplessly at Chelsea, his stalk awry, and his posture more upright than ever – a sure sign that he was quite thoroughly drunk.

“I don't think I understand,” he said forlornly.

“Don't worry about it, mate. You'll always have your peonies for comfort.”

With that, Crowley and Teddy lost it completely, hardly able to breathe for laughing.

“Do you mind?” called the hostess good-naturedly. “Some of us are trying to have a quiz over here!”

They scrabbled together a few honest points, mostly thanks Chelsea taking History for her Leaving Cert. But most of the questions were lost in a giggling, tumbling ramble through Crowley and Aziraphale's blurry memories as they picked up every stray thought they found on the way and tripped after it, quite regardless of relevance.

“Why,” said Chelsea, after a particularly rambling anecdote from Aziraphale about Samuel Pepys' bladder stones, “are you talking as if you were there?”

The cold shock of her words jolted through Aziraphale, but before he could think of anything to say, Crowley cut in.

“We were!” he said jovially, swigging the last of his pint. “Thing is, Chels, me and Aziraphale are actually thousands and thousands of years old, in't that right, angel? Been knocking about sssince the Garden of Eden. I,” he said, leaning close and dropping his voice low, “wasss the sssnake who tempted Eve to eat the apple.”

The words hung in the air. Aziraphale could hardly breathe. Then, slowly, like a wave crashing in slow motion, a smile started to spread across Chelsea's face.

“Of course you fucking were!” she laughed. “And I'm the Queen of Sheba!”

“Lovely woman,” said Crowley, grinning. “You wouldn't believe her skincare regime.”

“Give over,” Chelsea said, pushing Crowley playfully in the shoulder. He nearly fell of his chair with the force of it, but the intention was affectionate.

“If I was someone from history,” said Teddy, hardly paying attention, “I don't think I'd be a demon or an angel or anything like that.”

“Angels aren't from history, Teddy, they're made up,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes.

“No but you know what I mean though,” insisted Teddy. “Someone from history or a book or whatever.”

“People in books aren't real either,” Chelsea said.

“Some of them are. There are... There are some books with...” Teddy trailed off, the threads of thought slipping through their fingers.

Like the beam from a lighthouse, the voice of the hostess pierced the fog. “Which archetypal Renaissance man invented a pair of shoes for walking on water?”

“Leonardo Da Vinci!” Crowley blurted, his voice ringing out across the pub. The crowd laughed, more than a few fellow quizzers shouting their thanks for the free answer.

“Well, folks, if you still get that one wrong after that, there's no hope for you,” teased the hostess.

Crowley's cheeks, already pink with alcohol and good humour, darkened even further. He pulled a face. “'m right though,” he pointed out. Aziraphale patted him on the hand.

“Yes, dear.”

The special Hallowe'en round went even worse than History. They ended up with an answer sheet that was blank save for the word ‘Dickula’ and a wobbly drawing of a snake wearing sunglasses labelled 'Anthony Crowley is completely legless'.

“That's very offensive,” said Crowley as Aziraphale put the finishing touches to his masterpiece.

Aziraphale didn't look up. Tongue poked out in concentration, he proceeded to write 'some legs good, none legs bad' in blocky capitals beside the snake. He smiled triumphantly at Crowley, whose face twitched with the effort of not smiling back.

“Offensive,” he repeated firmly.

When the hostess announced that the final round would be an extra difficult trivia round with each question worth double points, there was a surge of energy around the table. Perhaps a final push at the end would be enough to fend off Edgar Allen Hoes and take the title!

It was not.

“I think our mistake,” said Chelsea as they watched Edgar Allen Hoes collect their prize, “was getting really really drunk.”

Teddy nodded sagely. “You might be onto something there, Chels.”

It was late when they finally stumbled out of the pub and into the bright cold of the night. The other patrons lined the street outside, waiting for taxis and filling the air with cigarette smoke and laughter.

“Hang about, I'm just going to check the buses,” said Teddy, pulling out their phone and leaning against Chelsea for balance as they tapped into it and started scrolling.

Aziraphale scanned the crowd, full of affection for the motley bunch of monsters and misfits. As he looked, he caught the eye of a man he thought he recognised, though he was sure the other chap hadn't been dressed as the Virgin Mary the last time he'd seen him. Then the man winked, and Aziraphale realised that he hadn't, in fact, been wearing very much at all the last time Aziraphale had seen him. A hot blush rose over his cheeks. He shot a look at Crowley, but he was leaning over Teddy's shoulder and giving advice on the best route home. The Virgin Mary saw Aziraphale's glance and nodded understandingly. Then he looked again at Crowley, and gave Aziraphale two thumbs up, mouthing the words, 'Nice one!'

Aziraphale laughed, nodded his thanks, and turned back to his friends. “Are you two alright to get home?”

“Yeah, should be,” said Chelsea. “Walk us to the bus stop?”

They headed off down the Strand, heading towards Waterloo Bridge in pairs. Teddy and Crowley walked up front, lit by the light of the map on Teddy's phone, with Chelsea and Aziraphale coming behind. Teddy stumbled slightly in their high heels, and Crowley offered his arm to keep them steady while they walked, laughing at something Teddy said.

“Are you staying at Teddy's tonight, my dear?” asked Aziraphale. Teddy lived in Dalston while Chelsea's flat was way out in Lewisham, south of the river and no fun to get back to at this time of night.

She nodded, yawning hugely. She slipped her hand into Aziraphale's and let her head drop onto his shoulder, careful to keep her ponytail from poking him. “I've had a fab night,” she murmured.

“So have I, dear girl. So have I.”

They reached the stop with a few minutes to spare.

“You don't have to wait with us,” Chelsea said hurriedly. “We'll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, course. Come here,” she said, pulling Aziraphale into a fierce hug.

“Are you a hugger, Anthony?” said Teddy.

To Aziraphale's surprise, Crowley must have answered in the affirmative, because when he stepped back from Chelsea, he saw the two them sharing a friendly embrace with every evidence of real enjoyment. Teddy let Crowley go and flapped for Aziraphale to come over.

“Swap, swap, swap,” they insisted.

Aziraphale wasn't going to argue. He let Teddy enfold him in a sweetly perfumed squeeze. “Good night, my dear,” he said. “Text me when you get home?”

“Sure,” Teddy smiled, giving Aziraphale a final kiss on the cheek. “See you soon. See you around, Anthony! It was lovely to meet you properly!”

Crowley, who had bent down to hug Chelsea goodbye, stood up straight and smiled back. “Yeah, you too, Teddy. Shall we, angel?”

“Goodnight, my dears.”

“Night night!”

It was only a twenty minute walk back to the bookshop and they set off at an easy pace. Aziraphale was in no hurry to bring the night to an end before he had to. Crowley seemed to be of the same mind, his legs swinging out in easy, loping steps, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

“Aren't you cold?” asked Aziraphale. Crowley shook his head.

“Nah. Well, a bit. But it's not so bad. Besssides, it's a small price to pay to look this good,” he added with a flash of teeth.

“Well, when you put it like that...”

The streets were littered with stragglers from the night's celebrations, and they passed people in various stages of costume – aliens with their antennae knocked askew, vampires with their cloaks on crooked. Someone wrapped in tinfoil and wearing a colander on their head passed them on the opposite side of the street, blearily trying to light a cigarette as they walked. Crowley's eyes lit up when he saw them, and he nipped across the road to exchange a few words. When he jogged back to Aziraphale, he had a cigarette of his own between his fingers.

“Thanks, mate!” he called over his shoulder.

The low-budget robot raised a hand in acknowledge and stumbled away down the road. Crowley took a drag, letting the smoke out of mouth in a satisfied stream. He took another pull and held the cigarette out to Aziraphale.

“I quit, remember? So did you,” he added, a note of reproach in his voice.

“Oh, but there'sss nothing like it for the walk home though. Go on, you know I'm right.”

Aziraphale shot him a look. Then he took the proffered cigarette and took a puff. “Oh, that's nice,” he sighed. “And a terrible, dirty habit,” he added firmly, handing it back to Crowley.

“Yeah, alright, angel.”

They walked together, neither quite walking straight, passing the cigarette back and forth as they went. Aziraphale could feel himself sobering up slightly, his drunkenness settling into itself, becoming something smooth and solid. After a while, he became aware of being watched. Sure enough Crowley was looking at him steadily, yellow eyes unblinking.

“What?” said Aziraphale. He flicked ash off the end of the cigarette and lifted it to his lips. “Go on, spit it out.”

“I was just thinking, you never did answer the quessstion.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Which question?”

A wicked smile stole over Crowley's face. “How _is_ the new Progasm treating you?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes theatrically. “Bloody Teddy and their big mouth,” he said, though there was no venom in it.

“How big exactly is your box of tricksss?” teased Crowley. “Are we talking shoe box, suitcase – packing crate?”

Aziraphale put on a dignified expression. “There's really nothing so very unusual about having a small collection of, of items  
to facilitate one's pleasure.”

Crowley barked a laugh. “Oh, I like that. Lovely way of putting it. Quite diminishesss the fact you've a big box of dicks under your bed.”

Aziraphale's lips twitched. “They're not all dicks.”

Crowley's jaw dropped but he recovered quickly, masking his genuine shock with theatrics. Clutching his chest and gasping, he reeled backwards and pretended to lean against a lamppost for support.

Aziraphale took a delicate puff of the cigarette and kept walking. “It's really not as uncommon as all that,” he pointed out. “Lots of people have sex toys.”

“Yeah, not angels though, I'd bet.” Crowley fell into step with Aziraphale. “Besidesss, lots of people do all sssorts of thingsss. Lots of people put the milk in firssst when they make tea.”

“Now that,” said Aziraphale, passing the cigarette to Crowley, “really is a sin.”

Crowley shrugged himself deeper into his jacket, contentment and amusement mingling on his face. “I'm just kidding,” he said after a moment, in a tone that told Aziraphale he knew he didn't really have to clarify, but wanted to anyway. “It'sss just a bit of sssurprise, that's all. Wouldn't have thought you had it in you. So to speak. You'll be telling me you've been shagging your way through the centuriesss next,” he added with a laugh. When Aziraphale didn't answer, Crowley stopped in his tracks. “No...!”

“Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but... Good Lord, if I'd known it was this easy to render you speechless, I'd have done it years ago.”

Blood flushed in Crowley's cheeks and Aziraphale took real pleasure in seeing the reaction unfold without Crowley's sunglasses in the way. It was always fun to see Crowley's idea of himself – insouciant cool with a devilish edge – run headfirst into the stark reality of his actual personality.

“ _Who_?” Crowley managed at last.

“You needn't ask it quite so incredulously, my dear. There's been more than one or two eras when I've been considered something of a catch.”

“No, I didn't mean- I mean, that is- Stop laughing!”

“Oh, dear boy, you make it too easy!”

He slipped his arm through Crowley's and patted it fondly. He hadn't realised what he'd done until he saw Crowley's gaze flick down to where their arms entwined. Aziraphale started to pull away – but Crowley laid his hand on top of Aziraphale's and held him in place.

“It's fine,” he said. “I don't mind.”

For a moment, Aziraphale didn't know what to say. Then he caught Crowley's eye and saw the fondness there. Crowley finished the cigarette and flicked the end into the gutter, only for a sudden gust of wind to carry it off course, stub it out on a lamp-post, and land it neatly in the nearest bin.

Aziraphale let himself relax. It had been a long time since they'd walked like this, arm in arm. The memory stole over him of when it had been easy to touch Crowley, to reach out and let their hands meet. It had become so much more difficult over the centuries.

When it came to touch, they had always taken their cues from the society they found themselves in. Long, long ago, they walked together hand in hand, exchanged a kiss of peace upon meeting, rested their hand on the other's knee as they sat together at the tavern, or the theatre. Slowly, inexorably, these marks of affection had fallen away. Their hands fell still in their own laps, their greetings were reduced to firm handshakes or masculine nods of the chin. The space between them grew wider and wider, until by the 1950s a veritable gulf of societal condemnation lay between them.

Unlike so many of the shifts in fashion and style that he had witnessed, Aziraphale had noticed every painful, lurching change. It felt different to the transition from breeches to trousers, or the cycling fashions of men's facial hair, or the slow-quick-quick-slow dance of language. This felt intentional, a determined push to keep those bodies deemed “unacceptable” a safe distance apart. Of course, it didn't take 6,000 years of practice to recognise the prejudice behind the shift.

“Perhaps that's why Teddy and Chelsea are so touch-feely,” he said aloud.

Crowley took a moment to respond. He seemed to have been quite lost in thought, though Aziraphale couldn't guess at what he was thinking about so deeply. At the sound of Aziraphale's voice, he frowned, slowly coming back to the moment.

“...what?”

“I was just thinking,” said Aziraphale. He squeezed Crowley's arm to illustrate his point. “About this, you know. How it used to be so much more acceptable.”

“Oh. Yeah, I s'pose.”

“I think it's getting a bit better,” Aziraphale continued. “Loosening up a bit, you know. And perhaps that has something to do with, you know, things being more... Normalised.”

Crowley's eyes slipped sideways, watching Aziraphale carefully. “Things,” he repeated slowly. “Things... like Teddy and Chelsea?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well. Teddy and Chelsea-adjacent.”

“Gay,” Crowley said, bluntly. “Gay things. Thingsss that are about being gay. Don't tell me you've been shagging your bits off for 6,000 years and you still blush at the word 'gay'!” A sudden thought dawned in Crowley, his eyes widening. “Unless- I mean, I just assumed- You're not...?”

“What? Heterosexual?” said Aziraphale, utterly incredulous.

“Well I don't know! I didn't even know you were anything-sexual until about five minutes ago.”

“I have, historically, tended to prefer men,” Aziraphale said, with the air of a practised line, “though I see no reason to limit myself.”

“Well. Right. OK then.”

Aziraphale waited for him to say something more but he seemed to have lost his thread. He still hadn't spoken by the time they reached the road of the bookshop.

“I didn't mean to speak so personally,” Aziraphale said as they approached the front door. “I just wonder if the changes in socially acceptable levels of affection are perhaps related to-”

“Do you want to hug more?” Crowley blurted. “I mean, at all, really. We don't, any more, but we did. A bit, a while ago – long while ago, I mean, but- I mean. We could, I mean. If... If you wanted to.”

He trailed off, ears burning, eyes darting. Aziraphale smiled up at him softly.

“I'd like that very much,” he said softly. “If you would?”

Crowley's throat bobbed as he tried to get it working properly. “Sssure. That would be... fine.”

“In that case, Mr Crowley,” said Aziraphale, a smile touching his lips, “how might you feel about a farewell embrace when we part ways?”

Crowley laughed, embarrassment melting away under the gentle mockery. “That sounds very acceptable, Mr Fell.”

They reached the bookshop door and Aziraphale pulled his arm free to stand facing Crowley, lit orange by the streetlight. He held his arms out solemnly. “Are you sure you're ready?”

“Now, look,” Crowley started. Aziraphale didn't let him build up steam. He stepped forwards and slipped his arms under the leather jacket to rest around Crowley's skinny waist.

For a split second, Crowley seemed not to know how to react. His hands hardly settled on Aziraphale's shoulders, the pressure light as he adjusted to the unusual sensation. Aziraphale waited. Then, just when he was starting to doubt his decision, Crowley sighed. His long arms wrapped around the top of Aziraphale's shoulders, and he relaxed into Aziraphale's embrace like it was the easiest thing in the world.

A button on Crowley's jacket dug into Aziraphale's cheek, and he moved his head to find a more comfortable position. He ended up with his face turned in towards Crowley's neck, his head resting against his shoulder. He could see the flicker of a pulse in Crowley's throat. Slowly, he let his eyes fall closed. The smell of Crowley's aftershave washed over him, mingling deliciously with the smell of cigarette smoke and beer. Aziraphale breathed it in, the scent triggering a shivering, fluttering sensation low in his gut. Crowley was solid in his arms, his body hot beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Crowley adjusted his grip, and Aziraphale felt a shock of pleasure as Crowley's hand came to rest on the back of his head, fingers moving gently against his scalp. Another shift, and Crowley's breath was in his hair, his mouth and nose buried in the curls.

Aziraphale could have stayed like that all night. For the rest of the year, if it came to it. But eventually Crowley's grip loosened and the moment, it seemed, was over. Aziraphale could feel the blood warming his cheeks as they pulled apart.

“Would,” he started, but his mouth was surprisingly dry. He licked his lips. “Would you like to come in? For a nightcap?”

A strange expression came over Crowley's face. He took a moment before answering. “No,” he said. “I, uh. I don't think so.”

A sharp, cold sensation in Aziraphale's throat, the sudden drop of his stomach. “Right. OK. Of course.”

“It's late...” Crowley started but Aziraphale waved him away, plastering a smile over the crack in his chest.

“Don't be silly, dear boy, you don't need to explain yourself to me. It's been a lovely evening, thank you.”

Crowley smiled, so different from his usual cocky grin. “Sure. I had fun. Your friends are nice.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, more genuinely. “They liked you very much.”

“Course they did, look at me.”

It was a silly joke, delivered with not quite the right amount of panache, but it broke the strange mood between them enough to allow Aziraphale to breathe more evenly.

“Goodnight, dear,” he said warmly. “Safe home.”

“Night, angel.”

Crowley turned to go, shoving his hands into his pockets. Aziraphale watched him go, then turned to unlock the door of the bookshop and slip inside. He had reached the foot of the stairs when he heard a banging from the front door. He turned, and saw Crowley pressed up against the glass, hands cupped around his mouth to shout through the door.

“Did you fuck Pyotr?!”

“Goodnight, Crowley!” Aziraphale called back, laughing. He saw Crowley grin and wave, and then he was gone again, slouching into the night.

Aziraphale left the lights off as he entered the flat, not wanting to disturb the feeling of warm and quiet. But as he undressed, he could feel something moving in him, a dark shape in deep water. He bit it back, ignored the feeling of his clothes against his skin as he removed them, told himself everything was fine as he slipped into bed and shivered at the feel of the sheets against his body. Arousal prickled in his stomach. He kept his eyes closed, like a child who thinks the world stops existing if they don't look at it. But even then, he felt exposed, unready.

He rolled onto his front, eyes tight shut, and buried his face in the pillows, pulling his duvet up past his shoulders so only the top of his head was uncovered. In the soft, hot dark of his bed, his hips moved against the mattress of their own accord, pressing himself, half-hard, into the sheets. Slowly, inexorably, his hand slipped down his body, pushing between his body and the mattress to take hold of his aching cock.

He imagined everything he could think of, every lover he'd ever taken, every body he'd ever held against his own. When he breathed, he tried not to smell aftershave and cigarette smoke, tried to push from his mind a scent as familiar to him as his own. But it was too much, too difficult, and he was so tired – tired of pushing his feelings away, tired of second-guessing himself, tired of waiting and pretending not to wait. There, in the dark, his self-control cracked, and he breathed relief even as the shame dug in its claws.

Even then, he fought to keep his fantasy strictly physical. He imagined long legs wrapped around his waist, skinny hips bucking underneath him as he thrust. He buried his face in the crook of his arm and raised his leg higher up the mattress. He imagined hot breath on his neck, fingers digging into his shoulders, the slick slide of body against body, the give of spare flesh under the weight of his tongue. Red hair, dark with sweat. His name, so familiar in that voice, so different in a gasp of pleasure. His discipline slipped. He wanted more. He wanted to know what it would be like to press their mouths together, to learn the shape of those lips by touch and taste. What would it feel like to finally, after so long, feel them against him? To hear them tell him...

He came, his orgasm ripping out of him with a groan only barely muffled by the pillows. He spilled over his fist and stomach, smearing himself against the bedclothes. For a moment, he lay completely still, his breath hot against his face, heart hammering. For a moment, he felt nothing. He cleaned himself up with a click of his fingers and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball.

His shame was a hollow thing, worn smooth with use. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes still tightly closed. It had been years since he'd last committed that quiet violation – decades, even. But the infrequency of it didn't make it any easier. Each time, he ended like this – guilt and loneliness wrapping around what little satisfaction he'd been able to find. He took a deep breath, tried not to think. Sleep, when it came, was a mercy.

#

Aziraphale woke late in the morning, winter sunlight shining clean and bright through the window. The contrast was perfect, the day cleanly separated from the lurching hunger of the night. Aziraphale lay for a little while looking at the shape of shadows dancing on the ceiling. With quiet, practised strokes, he cut his memory of the night before into two parts. Then he took the smaller part, sticky with shame, and locked it somewhere deep and dark, far away from the person he needed himself to be.

The rest of the night had been wonderful, full of light and love and laughter. There was no need to let it be ruined by this other thing, this dark, greedy part of him. Crowley was more than capable of redrawing the lines between them if he wished to. Clearly, he did not wish to. Aziraphale admonished himself – a friendship like theirs was something to be treasured for its own sake, not treated as a consolation prize. The birds were singing. The world was turning. He would count his blessings, and be grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] At least, almost never. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, a copy of _The Sins of the Cities of the Plain_ found its way into Aziraphale's hands. For some days after its arrival, the doors to both the bookshop and the flat upstairs remained sealed on multiple planes of existence, impenetrable to all powers, mundane, divine and infernal alike. As it happened, Crowley was away at the time, searching in vain for some way to enjoy the glamour and dashing heroics of the American West without ever needing to come within fifteen feet of an actual horse. As such, he never found out about this temporary banishment. When Aziraphale finally emerged, blinking, into the watery London sun, still a little flushed around the edges, he found Crowley propping up the bar at Arthur's and lamenting his ill-used buttocks. If Crowley noticed Aziraphale's unusual sympathy towards the subject, he didn't comment.
> 
> [2] Hatisfactory.
> 
> [3] Aziraphale had beautiful handwriting. Unfortunately, it was a swirling copperplate script that took up far more room than the answer sheets would allow and besides, had a tendency to favour aesthetics over legibility. Crowley's handwriting looked like a series of twigs held together with spit and stubbornness, and though Chelsea could write clearly if she concentrated, she preferred not to. Teddy, meanwhile, had the kind of handwriting that looked at first glance like a typeface – every character neat and round and perfectly formed, marching across the page in lines that were straighter than anything else in Teddy's life. It was deeply unnerving.
> 
> [4] He'd noticed.
> 
> [5] Or at least, felt he ought to want not to look.


	8. The Charm of Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has an emotional day and finds solace in the twin pleasures of patisserie and bubble baths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good afternoon friends, prepare for some emotions! there's a bit of crying in this im afraid but also cuddles and custard tarts so its not all bad. and what's that i see on the horizon? might it be... some kind... of revelation?? or just a weird floating goober in my eye? time will tell.
> 
> cw for: masturbation, use of sex toys, videoing oneself, fingering, bad german, emotions
> 
> also i guess as well as being an au where the grindr logo is a G, this is also a timeline where the boys hung out in the 20s bc i needed the name of nightclub to mention in passing for footnote 5 and ofc that took me into a research hole where i came across a coincidence too good to let pass me by...

Aziraphale did his best over the following days. Crowley kept coming round to the bookshop as usual, taking him out for meals, on trips to museums and galleries. He had obviously taken their conversation on Hallowe'en to heart, pulling Aziraphale into a friendly hug the next time they met with no preamble. To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley took to casual affection like a duck to… whatever it was ducks took well to.[1] They could hardly walk down the street together without Crowley linking their arms at the elbow, or pass through a doorway without Crowley's hand resting on the small of Aziraphale's back. If Crowley had any nerves about the change in habit, he didn’t show them. Perhaps, the first day, there had been a flash of something, some tightness in his mouth, his hands moving with just a hint of caution. But soon he was reaching for Aziraphale with thoughtless certainty, leaning into Aziraphale’s space with the confidence of one who knows absolutely that he is welcome.

It was wonderful. Of course it was wonderful. They hugged their helloes and their goodbyes, and the time they spent together was shot through with casual brushes of self against self as if there was nothing at all to stop them. Aziraphale felt himself blooming under the affection like a neglected flower blossoming into life. But as much as he loved the new affection between them, it did little to help him regain his equilibrium.

For the most part, he'd managed to spend the last 6,000 years keeping a tight lid on his more unhelpful emotions – so tight, in fact, even he could pretend to be unaware of them. After all, their friendship was more than deep enough, more than rich enough to hold the majority of his feelings towards the demon. He treasured that friendship more than he knew how to express, even to himself. On those rare occasions when something bubbled up in him that lay beyond the spread of even that broad love, he made sure to hold it back as best he could, bringing his wayward heart back into line.

Golgotha was the first time it happened. He and Crowley had slipped away from the crowds and spent the night sinking cup after cup of strong wine on opposite sides of the same sullen table.

They didn't speak as they drank. Aziraphale took the opportunity of the quiet to watch Crowley more carefully than he'd been able to before. There was a new sharpness in Crowley's face, something so different to the buoyant, childlike excitement Aziraphale had seen there before. As ridiculous as it felt to think of a demon, Aziraphale felt Crowley had lost some innocence in the intervening years. He was harder than he had been, wary of the world. Wary of Aziraphale, too, and Aziraphale hadn't known what to do with the hurt that came with that realisation.

When the tavern closed, they made their way to the roof of Aziraphale's house and kept drinking until the stars blurred. Crowley fell asleep, curled on his side with his hand under his cheek. Aziraphale had looked down at him, his face soft with sleep and grief, and was overwhelmed by something he couldn't name, for all his words. A strand of hair fell over Crowley's forehead. When Aziraphale brushed it back into place, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He sat there until dawn, watching, breathing in time with the gentle rise and fall of Crowley's chest. Aziraphale didn't remember if they'd talked much before Crowley left. He remembered the flash of a smile as they said goodbye, though, and how the sight had set something stirring low in his stomach – and how long it had taken before he could think of Crowley without that same feeling fluttering through him.

The experience should have made him more cautious. But the next time he saw Crowley he couldn't help brimming over, rushing to share his company. It was just that Crowley had looked so sad, so out of place in his not-quite-right clothes, slumped over the worst alcohol money could buy. And Aziraphale had known he could help. He _wanted_ to help, quite as badly as he'd wanted anything since the Garden – wanted to do whatever it took to get that giddy, boyish smile back on Crowley's face, to see the spark of mischief in his eyes.

Since then, he'd spent centuries oscillating between adoration and anxiety, letting himself draw closer, closer, closer – and snapping away again when heaven's heavy gaze burnt too keenly against the back of his neck. He came so close to making a fool of himself so many times, letting himself be swept up in feelings more at home in one of his silly romance novels than real life. There were moments, so many moments when he thought, maybe... But Crowley never reached across the space between them, and Aziraphale couldn't imagine anything getting in the way of Crowley taking something if he wanted it badly enough.

So. Aziraphale would simply do as he had so many times before – tidy his feelings up, acknowledge them as best he could and then set them aside. He would be fine. He was determined to be fine.

A week after Hallowe’en, Aziraphale was already exhausted. He’d seen Crowley every day but November 1st, and had spent every one of them wrestling his feelings. He felt as if he were living two lives, parallel and simultaneous. In one, his and Crowley’s friendship was flourishing, expanding to fill the space left by lost habits of shame. In the other, the shame had only changed its shape, twisting around him in black coils that tightened every time Crowley offered his hand and Aziraphale wished for more.

What he really needed was a distraction, he decided as he dressed one morning. Before, he'd been able to throw himself into work – take himself off for a few weeks for a series of manifestations until his traitorous heart had calmed enough to be allowed out in civilised company.

He wrinkled his nose, straightening his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. It had never been his favourite part of the job. He preferred the quieter kind of holiness, the kind of thing that infused the everyday, prompting people towards more ordinary acts of love and kindness. He didn't fancy setting himself up for a complicated project now he didn't have Heaven breathing down his neck.

Aziraphale's hands fell still. Of course, there was another option. He'd been known to take it on certain occasions, when the feelings he was trying to process had a more... specific focus. His eyes fell on his phone, lying on the bedside table.

No. No, it wouldn't be fair. It had never been fair, any of the times in the past. Aziraphale felt no shame about most of his sexual encounters – there was nothing inherently sinful in pleasure, after all, and his partners had always been enthusiastic participants in whatever they got up to together. But there were a handful throughout the millennia that he thought of with a twinge of guilt – not for anything he'd done, but for his less-than-pure motives in doing it. It was one thing to revel in another's body and let them do the same with one's own. It was quite another to use someone’s body as a means to an end, however keen the need might feel at the time – and however much they might happen to enjoy the using.

Aziraphale pushed the thought away, pocketing his phone and heading out to open the shop. He was better than this, he told himself. It was just another unhelpful bout of the same unhelpful feelings he'd dealt with a hundred times before. There was no reason to get anyone else involved.

He went about his morning routine, placed a few calls to book dealers he'd heard might have some interesting stock, finished a bit of reorganising he'd been working on since before the apocalypse. In short, he did everything he could think of to dislodge the idea that had come to him that morning. Then, in an idle moment, he found himself wondering how much like his fantasies Gen's skinny thighs might feel around his hips, and his resolve crumbled to dust.

He took out his phone and tapped into Grindr. After a quick look to make sure there were no customers in the vicinity, and after triple checking the volume on his phone was turned off, he opened the last video that Gen had sent him – one of him masturbating in bed one morning, posed with the same artful attention to detail that Aziraphale had come to expect from Gen.

Bright natural light made the angles of his body stand out beautifully, his black sheets offering a dramatic contrast to his pale skin. Aziraphale licked his lips, as entranced by the video as he had been when Gen had first sent it a week or so before. The temptation was too much for him. He tapped the video closed and typed out his first message of the day.

'Good morning,' he wrote, and then hesitated, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. 'How are you today?'

Aziraphale had learnt that, in Gen's case, any message sent before about 10.30am would be subject to a long delay before being answered. But it was almost noon and Aziraphale was sure even Gen would be up and about by now. Indeed, his reply came just moments later.

'hey! im good thanks, hows things with you?'

'I'm very well, thank you for asking. I was just admiring the last recording you sent of yourself.'

'haha thanks i cant actually chat rn but im glad ur enjoying it lol'

Aziraphale pulled a face, strangely embarrassed at having thought Gen would be available simply because he had wanted him to be. 'I'm so sorry,' he wrote. 'I didn't realise you were busy. I'll talk to you later.'

He was about to put his phone away, suitably chastened, when it vibrated again. 'no sorry i meant like i cant “““chat””” you know?'

At that, Aziraphale really did blush. 'I understand! I'm sorry for the confusion, I assure you I wasn't trying to initiate anything salacious.' It's not even lunch time, he added mentally. He was all for decadence, but he did have some standards.

'ok good! im at the shops haha cant really risk walking about with a bloody great hard-on lol'

The thought made Aziraphale smile. 'Yes, I take your point! I was just checking in – no quotation marks required.'

Gen took a moment before answering, and Aziraphale wondered if he could sense something strange about the interaction. Or perhaps he'd simply been distracted by an unexpected two-for-one offer.

'lol alright then i think i can manage that! hows ur week been?'

They swapped pleasantries – Gen was having quite as prosaic a time as Aziraphale, though he mentioned going out with some friends recently which seemed to have been a highlight.

'That sounds lovely,' said Aziraphale, spotting an opening. 'I wish we could spend some time together like that.'

This time, Gen's pause was harder to dismiss as innocuous. The ellipses flashed up and away a couple of times before he answered.

'what do you mean?'

'I mean it would be lovely to meet you some time,' Aziraphale wrote back. 'We could get dinner, if you liked.'

He was still waiting for Gen's reply when the bell above the door rang, catching his attention. He dealt with the customer as quickly as he could, aware of his phone's damning stillness in his pocket. It finally buzzed just as he rang up the purchase – Michael Arditti's _Of Men and Angels_ , a fine book but a little too close to home to ever become a favourite.[2]

He saw the customer off with a cheery goodbye, hoping he hadn't seemed too distracted, and then finally looked at his phone. The moment he opened the conversation, his heart sank.

'i thought id made it clear i didnt want to do any of that stuff'

'we agreed things wld stay anonymous btwn us'

'wheres this even coming from?'

Aziraphale's cheeks burned. 'I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.'

'i just want to know what prompted this. if you're looking for anything more serious im sorry but i cant do that, i told you that stuff's complicated for me'

'Yes, I understand,' Aziraphale wrote back. 'I had only thought that since we seemed to be enjoying each other's company in text we might also enjoy it in real life.'

'i dont think swapping wank videos is the same as enjoying someone's company. you dont even know me'

For a moment, Aziraphale was still. He stared at the message, trying not to let himself feel as hurt as he knew he was.

'I see. I misunderstood. I’m sorry.'

Ellipses flashed up and away. Aziraphale waited. Seconds stretched into minutes. Finally, Gen replied.

'its fine. i have to go.'

'OK. I'll talk to you later?'

Aziraphale waited for the tell-tale ellipses to pop up and tell him Gen was writing a reply. When he had realised there was no answer coming, he stood staring dumbly at his phone, sick with himself.

“Stupid, clumsy oaf,” he muttered, face hot with shame. He should have known better. He should never have said anything.

In the back room, he made himself a cup of tea and tried to calm down. The bell above the door rang once more, and he immediately wanted to tell whoever it was to leave him alone, for pity's sake. The thought only made him feel worse. He was being ridiculous.

“Pull yourself together,” he told himself sharply.

“I make no promises,” came a voice behind him, “but I'll do my best.”

Crowley stood in the doorway, a box under his arm, a smile on his face. Despite his current state, Aziraphale felt a rush of joy at seeing him – quickly followed by another cold slap of guilt.

“Hello, dear,” he managed, but as soon as he attempted a smile, the expression on Crowley's face melted into concern.

“Angel? Are you alright? You look upset, is everything OK?”

The care in his voice only made Aziraphale feel worse. “I'm fine,” he tried to say, as tears sprung to his eyes.

“You bloody aren't.” Crowley set his box down on the nearest surface and stepped closer, bringing his hand up to rest on Aziraphale's shoulder. “What's wrong? You haven't heard from your lot have you?”

“My...? Oh, goodness, no, nothing of the sort. It was just a... A customer. A very rude customer,” he finished weakly.

Immediately, Crowley's arms were around his shoulders, pulling him in to a bony hug. Aziraphale made himself lift his arms, heavy as they were, and respond in kind. This was normal, he reminded himself sternly. This was their new normal. They hugged now. They were friends who hugged. It didn't mean anything more. But needing to remind himself of that fact felt like a betrayal in itself, and the feeling swirled around inside him with all the guilt and shame and embarrassment that had been slowly filling him up since Hallowe'en and suddenly, it was too much. He felt small and stupid and deeply, achingly embarrassed. Tears spilled out over his cheeks and he started sobbing into Crowley's chest, big wet sobs that would have mortified him even more if he'd had a scrap of feeling left to spare.

Crowley's arms tightened around him, one hand in his hair, one splayed big and steady against his back. Aziraphale felt the vibration in his chest more than he heard his voice.

“It's alright,” Crowley murmured. “It's alright, I've got you. Take your time.”

It was too much. Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley's coat, trying not to think about the wet stain he was doubtless leaving there. All the while, Crowley's hand moved in mindless shapes through his hair and he felt the rumble of his easy, comforting words through the press of their bodies.

Finally, slowly, he came back to himself. His sobs slowed, and he began to breath more or less normally. He tried to pull away, already starting to apologise, but Crowley held him still with surprising strength.

“There's no rush,” he repeated in that same, soft voice. “Take as long as you want.”

So Aziraphale stayed – just for a little while longer, just until he was quite sure he was back in control of himself. When he pulled away again, Crowley pushed his glasses onto his head and looked at him carefully.

“How are you feeling now?” he said with a gentleness that really wasn't surprising at all. Crowley had always had such a capacity for kindness. The thought made Aziraphale's eyes prickle warningly, and he busied himself with a handkerchief.

“I'm-” he began, but Crowley interrupted.

“If you tell me you're fine one more time, angel, I swear to Someone...”

Aziraphale laughed, more snot than sincerity. “Not fine,” he admitted. He blew his nose and shrugged. “I think... I think I just got a bit overwhelmed all of a sudden.”

The look on the demon's face was one of perfect incredulity. “You don't say? Go and sit down, I'll be over in a minute.”

“Crowley, it's fine, you don't have to-”

“Go!” Crowley insisted, physically turning Aziraphale by the shoulders and propelling him towards the door.

Aziraphale let himself be chivvied out onto the shop floor – mercifully free from customers – and made his way, still snuffling slightly, to the sofa behind the till. He sat on the edge of the cushion. His breathing was a little shaky and he took a moment to steady himself. Then he thought how lucky he was to have Crowley, how ungrateful he was being by wanting more – wanting so much more. He began to cry again, soft breathy sobs that he hoped were quiet enough that Crowley wouldn't hear. But, no luck.

“Oh, now,” Crowley tutted as he made his way to the sofa. “That won't do at all.”

He'd taken off his coat and had a cup of tea in each hand, his box tucked under his arm. He deposited the lot on Aziraphale's desk before sinking into the sofa beside him. Then he pulled Aziraphale into sideways hug, tucking him under his wing like a soggy duckling. Half-heartedly, Aziraphale started to pull away.

“I'm not a child,” he sniffed.

“You don't have to be a child to be comforted,” said Crowley firmly. “Don't be an arse.”

Aziraphale laughed, despite himself. A distant part of himself, one less affected by his emotions, noted how patient Crowley was being. Even as he thought it, Crowley was stroking his thumb on Aziraphale's shoulder as if he had nothing else to do but sit there beside him.

Crowley's chest was solid and nonjudgmental under his cheek, the smell of his cologne beautifully soothing. Aziraphale’s tears slowed to a stop. He didn’t pull away. After a long, long time, a thought burrowed its way out of the fog.

“Aren't there customers?” he said, his voice small and soft.

“Sent them away,” came Crowley's answering rumble. Aziraphale had never thought Crowley had a particularly deep voice before. How different it sounded here, pressed up against him like this. “Didn't think you'd mind.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you feeling now?”

Aziraphale let out a breath, slow and heavy. “Better. Much better.”

Crowley moved then, dropping his head so that his face was buried in Aziraphale's hair. For a breathless moment Aziraphale thought Crowley was going to kiss the top of his head. But then he gave Aziraphale a quick, business-like squeeze and moved back, opening up the space between them. There was enough room between them now for Crowley to look at Aziraphale properly. He ran an appraising eye over Aziraphale's face as if to check he was telling the truth.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered.

“Not really.”

“That's alright. You don’t have to. You're safe though, right? It's nothing...” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, nothing like... like that. I'm fine, really I am. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” A smile crept over Crowley's face, he scooted to the edge of the sofa and leant on his knees, ready to stand. “If you're sure you're alright... would you like your present?”

“Present?” Aziraphale said, brightening considerably.

Crowley got to his feet and fetched his parcel from the desk. He sat back down, leaving a polite space between his leg and Aziraphale's, and passed the box over.

It was plain, thin cardboard and Aziraphale could easily guess what kind of thing it held. He'd seen more than a few of this kind of package in his time. He opened the lid and found two custard tarts, thick and fat, their sunny yellow fillings sprinkled with nutmeg.

“Popped to the bakery on my way here,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale felt a rush of fondness, familiar as an old coat. This, he understood. This part was easy – the same old back and forth they'd always had, Crowley shrugging off some small kindness as Aziraphale beamed his gratitude.

Gingerly, he lifted out one of the tarts while balancing the box on his knees. The custard wobbled enticingly, and he really did mean to thank Crowley before taking his first bite...

The pastry flaked under his teeth, giving way to luxurious, velvet-smooth filling, sweet and simple on his tongue. He sighed around the mouthful, letting his eyes fall closed as he chewed.

“Oh...”

“That good, huh?”

Aziraphale could hear the smile in Crowley's voice, knew exactly the teasing look he would be giving him – but he didn't care. He licked the crumbs from his lips and swallowed, perfectly content. Finally, he opened his eyes, and took a moment to enjoy the lovely brightness of the tart's filling, picked out in the afternoon sun.

“You know, angel, most people spend their whole lives searching for someone who'll look at them with half the devotion you reserve for patisseries.”

“Most people are a good deal less charming than an egg custard,” retorted Aziraphale, still gazing lovingly at the little tart.

Crowley barked with laughter. “You're not wrong.”

Aziraphale savoured each mouthful until he was fairly humming with pleasure. He took a drink of his tea – perfectly brewed, as it always was when Crowley made it – and let out another deep, contented sigh.

“That,” he said happily, “was absolutely lovely.”

“There's another one in there,” Crowley prompted.

“That one's yours! I couldn't possibly-”

“You really don't have to-”

“-would be intolerably greedy-”

“-every time I bring you-”

“-my boy, I absolutely insist!”

Crowley sighed, holding Aziraphale's earnest gaze, mouth twisted somewhere halfway between sardonic and affectionate. Finally, he held up his hands.

“Alright, you win this time. I'll have half.”

“Half? I've already had-”

“Don't push it,” Crowley said warningly. “I don't believe for a moment you wouldn't quite happily eat a whole box of custard tarts if left to your own devices.”

A blush rose in Aziraphale's cheeks.

“I don't mean it in a bad way,” Crowley said quickly. “You know what you like, that's all. And it makes you happy. It's... nice.”

Aziraphale's blush did not improve. He felt suddenly shy, the soft affection in Crowley's look making him duck his gaze.

He busied himself finding something to use to split the tart, settling eventually on a letter opener he'd picked up sometime in the 1700s. By the time he offered the box to Crowley, his blush had all but faded.

As Aziraphale watched Crowley's long fingers picking out his chosen half, he couldn't help feeling the letter opener wasn't alone in being unsuited for the task at hand. Those delicate, fine-boned hands should have been picking over hors d'oeuvres somewhere shimmering with candlelight, not fishing a custard tart out of a soggy cardboard box in a stuffy bookshop.

Then he caught Crowley's eye, and Crowley smiled so easily, so obviously content to be exactly where he was, that Aziraphale's heart stumbled in his chest. Crowley bit down, raising his free hand to catch the flakes of pastry that didn't catch on his lips. The sun was catching golden in Crowley's hair, the edges of his ears pink with the light behind them. He raised his eyebrows and swallowed, licking his lips clean.

“You alright? You've gone a funny colour.”

“I'm fine,” Aziraphale said, too quickly. “I'm fine, I just, um. Did you flip the sign? Only I might open again, if that's alright with you.”

Crowley's eyebrows twitched. “Sure,” he said with half a shrug. He took another bite of tart, and Aziraphale stood up so fast his blood didn't have chance to catch up.

“Back in a mo,” he said as brightly as he could through the sudden wave of dizziness.

“Do you-” Crowley started, then cut himself off. Aziraphale hovered in the doorway. When Crowley spoke again, it was with a careful tone, his eyes on the ground. “Would you like me to go?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

Crowley pulled a face. “Not really. But if you want...”

“Well then. Don't be ridiculous,” said Aziraphale briskly, needlessly straightening his waistcoat. “You're quite welcome here, Crowley. You're always welcome here,” he added after a moment.

That brought the smile back to Crowley's face. He finished his tart, sat back on the sofa and pulled out his phone, apparently settling in for the afternoon.

#

Crowley stayed for the rest of the day, sprawled on the sofa in various attitudes of louche disinterest. It was a comfort to have him close, a steady weight at the back of Aziraphale’s mind as he went about his business on the shop floor.

He was knelt under the dome, sorting through a delivery from a dealer in Canterbury, when his phone buzzed. A notification from Grindr. Aziraphale looked furtively over to the till, feeling a strange twist of guilt. But Crowley was staring at his own phone, probably causing trouble on Twitter or wasting time on some mindless, flashing game.[3]

Coast clear, Aziraphale opened the app - and sighed. It was just a notification to tell him there were new profiles available to view in his area. He went to put his phone away, disappointed, but hesitated, hand halfway to his pocket.

The searing shame that had coursed through him earlier had faded. The conversation with Gen had been a catalyst, but even he was self-aware enough to know it hadn’t really been what had upset him. Still, looking at the interaction more clearly, he couldn’t deny he had been in the wrong. Gen had made his boundaries clear, and Aziraphale had attempted to breach them. It wasn’t half as awful a transgression as he had imagined it to be at the time, but it deserved to be treated properly.

He opened his conversation with Gen and hesitated, trying to find the right words.

‘I understand if you’re not interested in speaking to me any longer, please don’t feel you’re under any obligation to reply. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I overstepped your boundaries. I shouldn’t have pushed. I apologise.’

He read through his message once, and hit send. A knot eased in his chest. Whether or not Gen accepted it, at least he could rest easy knowing he’d made a proper apology. Only time would tell.

He set his phone down on the floor beside him and picked up the next book in the delivery, checking it against the invoice. At that moment, Crowley’s head popped up from behind the till, making Aziraphale jump.

“Oh, good grief, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded, picking the book up from where he’d dropped it in his surprise. “You gave me a fright.”

Crowley was looking distinctly rumpled from lying on the sofa, flushed with heat from the sun coming through the shop window. He grinned at Aziraphale’s words. “Forget I was here? I didn’t realise I was so unmemorable.”

“Ha. Not something I believe you’ve ever been accused of.”

Crowley came out from behind the till, his arms over his head as he stretched, cat-like and happy.

“Didn’t mean to jump out at you,” he said, making his way over to where Aziraphale knelt beside the delivery crate. “Just wanted to see if you fancied a cup of tea.”

“Mm, yes please,” said Aziraphale, searching for his mug amongst the piles of books. He knocked back the dregs of his last cup, grimacing at the cold tea. “Here you go.”

Crowley hooked a finger through the handle and headed off towards the back room, already staring at his phone once more. Aziraphale watched him go, indulging (just this once) in an appreciation of Crowley’s penchant for tight trousers. There was a limit to even his self-control.

When he turned back to his work, he saw that he’d missed a notification. To his surprise, he found it was from Gen.

‘hey, i cant talk rn but thanks for the apology. im sorry for jumping down ur throat. it touched a nerve but its not ur fault & i shldnt have overreacted’

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ Aziraphale wrote, ‘but I appreciate the thought. Thank you for getting back to me. Have a lovely afternoon x’

‘yeh u too, ttyl xx’

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. It was a start, at least. By the time Crowley returned with the tea, Aziraphale was feeling more cheerful than he had all day.

“Was that Chelsea?” asked Crowley, nodding to Aziraphale’s phone. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed.

“No, why? Should it have been?”

“She texted me earlier, that’s all. Thought she might have messaged you, too.”

Behind Crowley, Aziraphale saw someone who looked unnervingly like a customer approaching the shop door. He was feeling much more his usual self by now, and no longer in need of distraction, so fixed the person with a hard stare through the door’s window. They faltered, hand halfway to the handle.

“We’re closed,” said Aziraphale, loudly and firmly.

The person glanced at the sign on the door, which definitely still said OPEN… then looked again at Aziraphale’s face, and took his word for it. They turned and hurried away, suddenly filled with the desire to be anywhere but in range of of the mad bookseller of Soho.

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, all sunshine and smiles. “What were you saying, dear?”

Crowley suppressed a smile of his own. He sipped his tea and pulled up a nearby chair to arrange himself on. “Just saying I got a text from Chelsea earlier. She says she’s having a party on Saturday for Bonfire Night and would we like to come.”

“Oh. Wasn’t it Bonfire Night on Tuesday? Remember, remember and all that?”

Crowley shrugged. “Hang on, I’ve got it here,” he said, tapping into his messages.

“Funny she should text you and not me,” said Aziraphale, turning back to the crate.

“Mm, I expect she meant it as an intentional slight to hurt your feelings,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale shot him a withering look. “I didn’t mean it like that, you shameless old gossip. I suppose she just assumed you’d tell me.”

“She was right, wasn’t she? Here it is,” said Crowley, finding Chelsea’s text at last. “There’s a fireworks display in Blackheath on Saturday night. She’s saying we can have some drinks at hers, go and watch the display, make a bit of a party of it. What do you say?”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels and considered. It had been a long time since he saw a proper fireworks display. A smile drifted onto his face.

“That sounds wonderful,” he said warmly.

“That’s what I thought,” said Crowley, kicking his legs up over the arm of the chair and making himself comfortable. “I told her we’d be there for seven.”

#

Crowley didn’t stay for dinner. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure why not. One moment they’d been enjoying each other’s company, talking about nothing in particular; the next, Crowley was making his excuses, buttoning up his sleek, black coat and leaving the shop door to jingle in his wake.

Aziraphale couldn’t account for it. As he climbed the stairs to the flat, he wondered if it was something he’d said. But he’d only been telling some silly anecdote about the last time he was in Munich, when he had thoroughly embarrassed himself while out for dinner. He’d been dining with a compatriot in the rare book trade named Reiner, whose crow’s feet had crinkled charmingly as he suggested to their horrified waiter that they would like Vorspeise, and not the Vorspiel that Aziraphale had requested.[4]

Crowley had been laughing along, which only fuelled Aziraphale’s own giggles, until he was hardly able to get the words out. When he finally got his breath back he’d looked up to find Crowley watching him with an expression Aziraphale couldn’t read. It was gone as soon as he saw it, hastily covered with a smile. And then Crowley was rushing out the door, leaving Aziraphale confused and vaguely guilty.

There was no point fretting about it now, Aziraphale supposed. Crowley would get over it, whatever it was, and likely be back to his normal self the next time they saw each other.

Aziraphale took off his shoes and went to make himself a cup of cocoa. Outside, the occasional crack and fizz of fireworks was the only reminder that there was a world beyond. Aziraphale could hardly believe how long the day had been. It felt like years since he’d got dressed and made his foolhardy plan to try and meet up with Gen. At least he didn’t seem to have done any permanent damage there - a few ruffled feathers, but Gen’s last message assured him that there was no real offence.

Cocoa in hand, he tucked himself up on the sofa and reached for the nearest book. Before he could find his place, though, his phone buzzed in his inside pocket. A text from Crowley. Aziraphale wondered if he was going to explain himself. But it was only a link, followed by a question.

‘fancy this tomorrow?’

Aziraphale opened the link and was taken to the website of The Globe. They were running a series of dramatised ghost stories in the Sam Wanamaker theatre, the indoor space they used as a necessary deference to the weather during the cold winter months. Aziraphale smiled, feeling a cosy squeeze of affection.

‘Sounds spooky!’ he texted back. ‘Perfect for a winter night.’

‘thats what i thought. ill pick u up tomorrow night?’

‘Wonderful. Looking forwards to it.’

‘cool, see u then. have a nice evening!’

Aziraphale smiled to himself. It was a small exchange, but enough to tell him that Crowley was thinking of him. A little wave of sadness tried to push against the feeling, but Aziraphale ignored it. He would not let himself ruin the moment.

His phone vibrated again, and he looked, expecting another text from Crowley. Instead he found a notification from Grindr - a message from Gen. Aziraphale opened it with just a hint of trepidation.

‘hey, u free to talk?’

‘Certainly. What would you like to discuss?’

‘i just wanted to check something and im sorry but i cant think of a tactful way of asking’

‘How intriguing. I’m sure I won’t be offended.’

There was a pause as Gen typed out his message, apparently still struggling to find the right words even with Aziraphale’s reassurance. Aziraphale sipped his cocoa and waited.

‘ok so, were you looking for a date or just sex?’

A bit of cocoa went down the wrong way, making Aziraphale splutter. He set the mug down on the end table beside the sofa and tried to catch his breath, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

‘Do you mean this morning,’ he wrote, when he’d recomposed himself, ‘or on Grindr in general?’

Gen’s ellipses flashed twice before he replied. ‘both?’

Concern crinkled Aziraphale’s brow - he did hope he hadn’t got Gen’s hopes up. ‘I didn’t come to Grindr looking for a relationship,’ he wrote. ‘I told you that when we started talking.’

‘no i know but i wondered if perhaps you’d changed your mind’

Aziraphale sighed. ‘I haven’t, no. I’m not in a position to get into a romantic relationship. I’m sorry if we crossed wires.’

‘no thats fine! thats good! i mean, me neither.’

At least Aziraphale could breathe more easily on that front - it didn’t seem like the young man had been hoping for anything Aziraphale couldn’t offer. There was a pause. Then Gen texted again.

‘i guess i panicked a bit this morning bc it sounded like you were looking for a date or something, like you wanted something more serious’

“Ah,” said Aziraphale aloud. He could see the problem now. He took a fortifying mouthful of cocoa and chose his next words carefully.

‘I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression. I was only hoping…’ And here his fingers paused, not sure how to continue. There was no way of putting it delicately, he supposed, and skirting the issue was what got them into this situation to begin with. ‘I was hoping we could meet for sex,’ he wrote at last, letting the shreds of his dignity fall to the wind.

He sent the message before he could second guess himself. The words glared at him, stark and bare, from the screen as he waited for Gen’s reply. If they were talking in person, he’d be able to judge Gen’s reaction based on his expression, his body language, a thousand other clues beyond the words he chose. Instead he was left twiddling his thumbs while he waited for an answer. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

‘ok then! glad we’re on the same page,’ said Gen, with a grinning emoji. ‘i still want to stay anon if thats ok with u? but i dont mind u asking, im not offended or anything’

Aziraphale smiled, touched that Gen would think to reassure him. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he wrote. ‘I’m certainly happy to remain anonymous if that’s more comfortable for you. I’ve been enjoying our chats very much.’

‘me too! i actually had something kind of fun planned for next time’

Slyness crept into Aziraphale’s smile. ‘Is that so?’

‘i mean, if ur busy tonight it’ll wait…’

‘I assure you, I have no plans beyond perhaps a bath.’

‘ok that actually works nicely - it’ll take me a bit of time to get things sorted here. u cld run ur bath and ill talk to you when im ready?’

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. ‘Sounds like quite the production! I’d hate you to go to any extra trouble on my account,’ he wrote, absolutely thrilled at the thought.[5]

‘its no trouble, dont worry,’ replied Gen. ‘ive been thinking about it for a couple of days, im really glad we didn’t fall out before i cld do it!’

Aziraphale laughed as he wrote, ‘Me too! That sounds like a good plan, then. I’ll let you know when I’m in the bath?’

‘great, talk to you then xx’

Excitement stirred in Aziraphale’s chest. He set his phone aside and finished his cocoa, wondering what Gen might have in store.

#

The sound of water thundering into the bathtub filled the room. Aziraphale added a healthy amount of scented bath soak so that the steam rising from the hot water was drenched with the smell of ylang-ylang and bergamot.[6] He undressed in his bedroom and wrapped himself in a delicately patterned dressing gown before pouring a generous glass of Cannonau di Sardegna, sipping it as he padded back to the bathroom. There, he lit rows of tealights along the sides of the bath, with a few larger candles on the floor so that the room filled with warm, flickering light. Then he switched off the lights, turned off the taps, and set his wine down on the shelf beside the bath. With both a towel and his pyjamas on the radiator to warm, he dropped his robe, stepped over the side of the tub, and sank into the hot, fragrant water with a deep and heartfelt sigh.

Perfection. Hot enough that he could feel his skin turning pink, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. Tight muscles in his back and shoulders were already starting to loosen. He took a drink of wine, the aromatic flavour mixing wonderfully with the scented steam.

For a while, Aziraphale simply sat and soaked, enjoying the curling, fern-like fronds of steam that rose from the water, golden in the glow of candlelight. Then he reached for his phone, using a small miracle to keep condensation from forming on the screen.

‘I’m ready,’ he wrote to Gen. He took a long, slow drink of wine and let himself slip slightly lower in the water. ‘What’s this surprise you were getting ready for me?’

Prickles of anticipation ran up his spine. Whatever it was, he was looking forwards to it enormously.

Gen’s answer came quickly. ‘here you go. let me know when you’ve watched it. enjoy,’ he added, and Aziraphale didn’t need an emoji to hear the wink in the word.

He set his wine down and licked his lips. He was already starting to get aroused, he realised, his heart beating faster at the thought of what Gen’s video would hold. He opened the file, and pressed play.

At first, all he could see was the top of Gen’s chest. He was bare chested, reaching forwards to hit record. As soon as the camera started filming, Gen stepped back to reveal the room behind him. Black marble walls twisted with bright streaks of grey, the light filtering in from all sides so that every surface glittered. The floor was the same black marble too, but the far wall shone bright, bold white. A huge, gleaming shower-head jutted out from the black wall, but Aziraphale couldn’t see any kind of enclosure marking the space off from the rest of the room. A wet room, then - something that seemed to Aziraphale at once utterly impractical, and entirely in keeping with Gen’s flair for the dramatic.

Gen was perfectly framed as he moved over to the shower, his whole body visible while keeping his head and face out of shot. Aziraphale didn’t doubt Gen had spent quite some time perfecting the camera’s position. He looked wonderful, naked and unabashed, the long lines of his body contrasting beautifully with the shimmering surfaces around him.

The shower sprang into life with a touch, falling like rain from the great, square shower-head. Gen stepped under the stream, letting the water run over his body. He rolled his shoulders, tipped back his head, and Aziraphale didn’t need to see his face to know he had his eyes closed.

Slowly, Gen started to run his hands over his body, utterly unhurried. Aziraphale watched as he moved his hands over his arms, his chest, down the dip of his lower back. He might almost not have known the camera was there at all. But the way his hands avoided touching his crotch or arse told Aziraphale that he knew exactly what he was doing. This was a temptation, and if there was one thing his time with Crowley had taught him, it was that temptations ought never to be rushed.

But Aziraphale didn’t want to think about Crowley right now. He was transfixed by Gen’s body, wet and shining under the running water. Gen reached to a small silver shelf beside the shower controls that held a row of identical, unlabelled glass bottles. He tipped the contents of one of the bottles into his hand and started rubbing it into his chest. A lather began to build, and Aziraphale stared as clumps of bubbles trailed down Gen’s stomach, over the curve of his arse, down his long, narrow thighs, wrapping around his calves before they were washed away.

Gen turned, bringing his body to face the camera. His prick was soft and vulnerable, curled against his body. He brought his hand to it almost absent-mindedly, though the gentle motion of his hips betrayed his pleasure.

He was still only half hard when he moved his hand away, raising his fingers to trail down his neck. Aziraphale lost himself in the thought of Gen’s pulse beneath his tongue as he kissed and licked down the long column of his throat. He shifted position, making the bathwater splash gently against the sides of the tub, but resisted the urge to take himself in hand, enjoying the throb of his own desire as he continued watching.

With one hand, Gen started to play with one of his nipples. He bent his other arm behind his head, cushioning it against the wall as he leant backwards, lost in the sensation. Aziraphale watched as Gen’s cock started to harden in earnest, twitching in time with Gen’s fingers. His head tilted back once more, and the bottom of his sharp jaw came into shot as his mouth opened with a wordless groan. The falling water wasn’t loud enough to mask the groan entirely, and the sound of it went straight to Aziraphale’s prick. He shifted again, stirring against the building pressure.

Finally, Gen started to touch himself in earnest. He wrapped his hand around his cock and began to stroke it with slow, languid movements. Aziraphale sighed at the sight. He could see the lines of Gen’s muscles, lean and strong, could almost feel the shape of them beneath his hands, the sharp jut of his hips against Aziraphale’s soft body…

Gen moved then, turning his back to the camera. He pressed his face into the crook of his elbow where it braced against the wall. His other hand reached behind him, slipping down to run one long finger up the centre of his arse. He twitched as the tip ran over his hole, and brought a second finger in to stroke and touch and play.

Aziraphale bit his lip, giving in to temptation and squeezing his own cock, heavy and hard in his hand. The sensation was electric, his body felt alive under his touch and the touch of the lapping water. Every movement made the water shift and slide around him, the stroke of it like a hundred soft fingers across his skin. On the screen, Gen widened his legs to give Aziraphale a better view of his fingers, now moving slickly in and out of his arsehole. A quiet moan slipped out of Aziraphale’s mouth as he watched, moving his hand in time with Gen’s.

Too soon, Gen was pulling his fingers free, standing straight. He started to move towards the camera, and at first Aziraphale thought that was the end of the video. But then Gen reached for something sitting out of shot. He walked back to the shower, object in hand, and Aziraphale felt a rush of attraction at the arrogant swing of his hips. Gen knew exactly what kind of an effect he would be having.

With a thrill, Aziraphale saw that the object in Gen’s hand was a matte black dildo, about the length of Gen’s palm. It had a suction cup at its base and a stylised shape, curving and flaring in the middle before tapering to a rounded head. Gen pushed the suction cup against the black marble of the wall, sticking the dildo just out reach of the spray, and reached for another of the glass bottles. He poured a little of what Aziraphale assumed was lubricant into his hand, careful to avoid the shower spray as he rubbed it over the dildo until it glistened, letting his long fingers linger over its length. He moved himself into position, and, devastatingly slow, eased himself backwards onto the slick, silicone cock.

Aziraphale’s head knocked back, teeth pressed into his bottom lip to stifle a moan. Gen moved with slow, rocking motions, and Aziraphale could see a flush spreading across his chest that he knew had nothing to do with the heat of the shower. The angle of the camera meant that Aziraphale could only see the dildo when Gen moved off it completely, but of course Gen knew that. He seemed to take pleasure in pulling off the dildo every few strokes, as if to make sure Aziraphale knew he was really fucking himself on it. His back arched, his hips rose and fell, and his hand moved in time over his wet cock.

Aziraphale jerked himself mindlessly, lost in the fantasy. He could feel his orgasm building, knew he should ease off if he wanted to last until the end of the video. With a surge of will, he pulled his hand away, clutching at the side of the bath as his hips twitched, desperate for more. He stared at his phone, sure that any moment now Gen would come, hungry for the sight of it.

The rhythm of Gen’s hips was becoming more and more ragged, his fist moving almost frantically. But just when Aziraphale was sure it was over, Gen pulled himself off the dildo and let go of his cock, his fist clenching at his side in a mirror of Aziraphale’s own frustration. Gen took a deep breath, then another - then started to move towards the camera. Just before he switched it off, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of Gen’s mouth, lips bitten red, curved in a knowing smile.

The screen went dark. Aziraphale could have screamed. He tipped back his head and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard. Then, he started to smile.

‘That,’ he wrote eventually, ‘was remarkable.’

Gen’s answer came immediately. ‘you liked it?’

Aziraphale laughed. ‘I think you know very well how much I liked it. You certainly seemed to know exactly what you were doing.’

‘did u finish?’

The question confused Aziraphale for a split second. Of course, he’d finished watching the video. Then he caught Gen’s meaning. ‘No, not yet - though it was a close thing.’

‘why did u wait?’

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He remembered his glass of wine, and took a mouthful before answering. ‘I suppose I hoped there might be a reason you didn’t. Was I correct?’

Gen’s answer came a few seconds later. It was a photo - Gen, sprawled out over his opulent, black-sheeted bed, a crisp white towel slung over one hip, barely covering the obvious swell of his erection. Aziraphale laughed, shaking his head. He might have known.

‘ive been waiting for you,’ wrote Gen. ‘will you show me?’

Aziraphale was more than happy to oblige. He spread his legs, bending one knee to rest against the side of the bath. He was achingly hard, and his prick rested fat and heavy against his thigh. He took a photo, squeezing himself for the barest relief.

This time, Gen’s reply was slower. When it came, it wasn’t what Aziraphale expected.

‘can you take another photo?’

‘Whatever you like,’ wrote Aziraphale, a little confused but happy to oblige.

He flipped the camera to front facing and sat up a little, making the water jostle and splash. With his elbow on the side of the bath, he framed the picture to include his broad chest and the gentle slope of his shoulders while keeping his face out of shot. He sent the photo with a rush of pride. He looked good like this, candlelit and wrapped in steam.

‘not like that,’ said Gen. Annoyance flashed through Aziraphale - he thought he’d done rather well. ‘sorry,’ Gen continued, ‘i just mean, could i see the rest of the bathroom?’

By now, Aziraphale was completely baffled, and not a little cross. ‘What on earth do you want to see my bathroom for?’

Gen’s ellipses flashed up once, twice, three times. ‘context?’ he offered finally.

For a moment, Aziraphale considered telling him to bugger off. Then again, perhaps if he did as he was asked, they could get back on track. He snapped a quick photo of the bathroom, hardly bothering to make sure it was in focus. If Gen wanted more detail, he could whistle for it.

‘There,’ he said when he’d sent it. ‘Can we get back to things now?’

To his mounting irritation, his phone started to vibrate with an incoming call. Crowley’s name flashed up on the screen. Aziraphale could hardly contain his frustration as he swiped the call away, cursing Crowley’s bad timing.

“Of all people,” he muttered to himself, going back to the chat with Gen.

He drank his wine as he waited for an answer, clicking his fingers to bring the bathwater back up from nicely warm to deliciously hot. The rush of heat was delightful, and he closed his eyes to let it wash over him, wriggling his toes in pleasure. When he opened them again, he had a new message from Gen.

‘answer your phone’

Cold dread rose in the back of Aziraphale’s throat. It couldn’t… Surely, it couldn’t? With crushing inevitability, his phone began to vibrate once more. An incoming call. Crowley’s number.

For a moment, Aziraphale couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe. Then, fingers trembling slightly, he answered.

“…hello?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Tax evasion.
> 
> [2] Despite Crowley's constant teasing to the contrary, Aziraphale was perfectly capable of selling a book if he wanted to. He was even capable of wanting to, provided the book was one he'd already read, and had no intention of re-reading, and wasn't an interesting edition, and wasn't one he thought he might want to lend to someone in the future, and hadn't been read under any especially pleasant circumstances – 'the first book I read after the world didn't end', for example, or 'I don't remember what decade it was but I'd been sat in a rather nice patch of sunlight at the time.'
> 
> [3] Ever the master of self-preserving doublethink, Aziraphale was at once entirely dismissive of mobile games and entirely addicted to Candy Crush. It was not something he liked to discuss.
> 
> [4] Thankfully, Reiner was able to continue Aziraphale’s lesson on the matter later that night when they returned to Reiner’s apartment. It was not a lesson Aziraphale was likely to forget. This part of the anecdote, he did not repeat to Crowley.
> 
> [5] Aziraphale was well-versed in the significance of small gestures - a meal shared, a glass refilled, a stain miracled away. But in his heart of hearts, there was nothing Aziraphale liked more than being the object of A Fuss. If he had his way, every expression of affection would be in full Technicolour, complete with long-legged showgirls in big hats and small knickers Busby Berkleying to an enormous jazz band, populated solely with Gregory Peck lookalikes, who would play rippling fanfares on diamond-encrusted trumpets while Aziraphale, resplendent in white and gold, received the attention of his belovèd with charm and grace. At this point, the daydream tended to disintegrate somewhat as Aziraphale got distracted thinking about whether or not he might like a feather boa, and wondering if Crowley still owned the tight-fitting tailcoat he’d worn to the opening of the Gargoyle Club.
> 
> [6] The soak had been a gift from Crowley, crafted by a celebrity florist of his acquaintance. Quite how one became a celebrity florist, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. Still, the scent was dreamy and the bottle, with its vintage-style label and glass stopper, fit perfectly among his vast collection of oils, soaks and bubble baths.


	9. 300 Strangers in Candlelight Witness the Birth of a Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a Very Normal phonecall, Aziraphale and Crowley enjoy a Totally Chill dinner followed by a Perfectly Usual trip to the theatre.
> 
> Everything Is Completely Fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok as funny as last week's cliffhanger was, it just seemed too cruel to leave yous to wait a whole week haha so! cheeky little midweek update to take the edge off. i'll post another chapter on sunday, and then from there on out it'll be every sunday as usual until the double-chapter finale. wahoo!
> 
> cw for this chapter for: dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation. as always, do please tell me if there's something you feel needs to be flagged up in the all-work tags or mentioned explicitly here.
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if u want to yell at me!

There was no answer at the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Aziraphale said again. “Crowley, is that-”

“Genesis,” came Crowley’s voice, so quiet Aziraphale almost didn’t hear. Crowley cleared his throat, tried again. “Genesis,” he repeated. “Chapter… chapter three.”

Aziraphale’s memory of scripture was not particularly good - it had limited appeal when you’d actually lived through the events in question. His lips moved as he tried to remember. Then it came to him, and the connection was made in a horrible, sickening rush.

“Gen 3,” he breathed. Crowley’s moment in the spotlight.

The silence was absolute. He could barely make out the sound of Crowley breathing. He felt numb. It was too much. He simply couldn’t process the thought - that Gen and Crowley were one and the same, that all those conversations, all those pictures, the videos, the filthy things they’d said to one another, he’d shared them all with Crowley. He felt slightly dizzy.

“Your bathroom,” said Crowley. “From the shower the other day. I recognised- Oh, _fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Aziraphale didn’t hear him. He was replaying their interactions in his mind, frantically running through them for any signs, any clues he might have picked up on. And there, in retrospect, a series of clues he’d shrugged off as mere quirks of fate, from Gen’s idiosyncratic texting style and the shared theatre tickets to the colour of… Oh God, he knew the colour of Crowley’s pubic hair. He’d seen Crowley’s cock.[1]

A thought rose slowly to the front of his awareness.

“Crowley?” he said, interrupting the steady stream of swearing.

“What?”

Aziraphale licked his lips, swallowed. “Crowley, I already know but I just have to check - you didn’t…”

“I didn’t know.” The words came quick and certain. “I swear, I didn’t. I wouldn’t _do_ that, angel, I wouldn’t-”

“I know,” Aziraphale cut in. “I know you wouldn’t. I just needed to ask.”

There was a long, long pause. Aziraphale heard Crowley shifting about, the hiss of fabric on fabric. Probably covering himself up, he thought dimly. He wondered if he should too, if it was some kind of violation not to.

For some reason, none of his feelings seemed to be reaching him. He knew, logically, that he ought to be mortified. He ought to be writhing with skin-crawling embarrassment, wracked with the humiliation of having unknowingly shared that side of himself with Crowley. But it just didn’t seem to be sinking in. He felt distant from himself, as if this were all happening in some kind of pocket universe that might at any moment seal itself up and snap out of existence, leaving them untouched by its revelations.

“I don’t…” Crowley started, then cut himself off. “How did this even happen? What the fuck are _you_ doing on Grindr?”

Of all things, this prompted an emotional response. Aziraphale felt a flare of anger heating his face. “What do you think I’m doing?” he snapped. “The same as everybody else on that godforsaken application. The same as you, evidently.”

“Alright, OK. I’m sorry,” said Crowley, placatingly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised.”

“I don’t see why. You were the one who downloaded it.”

Another pause. “What are you talking about?”

“When I first got my phone. You put those apps on it. For a joke.”

For a long time, Crowley said nothing. When he did, his voice was quiet and slightly incredulous. “You still have those?”

Aziraphale felt his anger dissipating. He shrugged, water lapping around him. “I like them,” he said simply.

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley laughed - a soft, breathy thing. The sound was inordinately reassuring. Aziraphale flexed his feet, lifting one up to watch the steam rising from his skin. He almost didn’t hear Crowley when he spoke next.

“What are we going to do?”

Aziraphale sniffed, dropping his leg back into the water with a splash. “What do you want to do?”

Crowley’s breath hissed down the line. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “We could pretend it didn’t happen, I suppose. Play it off as a joke. Or avoid each other for a bit - a century or two should do it, I think, I hear Tibet’s nice this time of millennium, perhaps I could hole up there for a while and come back when-”

“We could finish.”

The words were out of Aziraphale’s mouth before he knew he was going to say them. Even when he’d said them, he couldn’t quite believe his ears. They hung in the air in front of him, shivering and unreal. It was strange, he would have expected the suggestion to give him palpitations, trembling hands and cold sweats. But he felt preternaturally calm, as if the whole thing were happening in a dream.

“Wh… What?”

He licked his lips, swallowed. “We could finish,” he repeated. “The conversation, I mean.”

“The conversation.”

“Mm. The one we were having before… Before you called.”

“Before I called.”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say back to me?”

“I’m just- I’m not sure what you’re suggesting,” Crowley said weakly.

“I’m suggesting we get on with what we were doing.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I don’t know about you but I was fairly on my way and I wouldn’t mind… Well. Arriving. So to speak.”

“Arriving!” Crowley repeated, then rushed to continue. “No, no, I know, I’m sorry. I’m just, um. Processing. Are you serious?”

“Completely.” Aziraphale slid down in the bath until his chin was in the water, knees poking up like pink icebergs. He dropped his voice. “You liked it, didn’t you? You’ve been enjoying yourself, I mean?”

“I… Yeah, I suppose,” Crowley said slowly. “I mean. Obviously.”

“Well then. Mightn’t we keep enjoying ourselves?”

Aziraphale pressed the phone to his ear, as if he could hear telltale shift of Crowley’s expression if he just listened hard enough. He was starting to lose his nerve when Crowley finally answered.

“I… I suppose… If you wanted to?”

Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever heard Crowley so uncertain. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t,” he pointed out. “It’s entirely up to you, dear boy. What do you want?”

The question seemed to be more than Crowley could manage. Aziraphale cast about for something to say to put him at ease.

“It’s only a bit of fun,” he said into the silence.

Crowley let out a breath. And with it, the mood between them shifted. Aziraphale’s heart began to beat harder, he heard Crowley shifting position on his bed, heard the faint sound of him licking his lips. Aziraphale waited for him to say something, but nothing came. He took a steadying breath.

“Are… Are you still hard?” he asked gently.

Crowley swallowed. “Not really,” he admitted.

“That’s alright. Me neither.” Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, summoning his courage. His eyes fluttered closed. He wanted to concentrate. “You could touch your neck,” he began. “You like that, don’t you?”

Crowley made a noise to the affirmative. Aziraphale’s stomach fluttered, his nerve almost breaking.

“Touch your neck,” he said, letting the gentlest note of authority tinge his voice. On the other end of the phone he heard Crowley take a long, shivering breath. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Good,” Crowley managed. “It feels good.”

“Keep touching it. I want you to stroke it, just like you did in your video.”

He wanted to tell Crowley how beautiful he was, how much he wanted to be the one to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him - but that felt like a step too far, for all his sudden bravery. If he showed too much emotion, or pushed the bounds of what ‘a bit of fun’ might mean, he could lose Crowley forever. So he concentrated on the physical, bringing the image of Crowley’s body to his mind.

“Now,” he said, “bring your fingers to your lips. I want you to suck them. I want to hear you suck them.”

Slick, wet noises mingled with the sound of Crowley’s quickening breath. Aziraphale’s cock twitched.

“That’s perfect,” he breathed. “Good boy.”

The words were automatic, slipping out as his dominant side stretched and wakened. But Aziraphale was listening too keenly to miss the catch in Crowley’s breath as he said it. The sound sparked a fresh rush of arousal through him, as much for itself as for the possibilities it suggested about what else Crowley might enjoy. He pushed the thought aside, making himself concentrate on the here and now.

“Play with your nipples for me,” he continued. “That’s right, darling, just like that. I bet…”

“What? What is it?” Crowley’s voice was breathless.

“I bet you wish it was my mouth, don’t you?”

At that, Crowley groaned in earnest. There was a soft thump of his head falling back against a pillow. Aziraphale took the moment to finally take his cock in his hand, eyes squeezing shut at the sensation.

“Tell me.”

“I want- I wisssh- I wish it was you,” he hissed. “I want your mouth on me, sssucking them, bite- biting me, oh fuck, oh-”

He broke off with a gasp, and Aziraphale’s hand moved faster. “That’s it, darling, you’re doing so well. Are you nice and hard for me now?”

A sound like nodding, followed by a hurried, “Yes, fuck, yes, I’m hard.”

“Good boy,” Aziraphale said again, and was rewarded with a barely bitten back groan. “Can I tell you something, Crowley?”

Crowley took a moment to catch his breath. “Wh- What?”

“I’ve always liked how wet your cock gets,” Aziraphale said. “In your pictures, it always leaks so much, it’s so… tempting. Are you wet for me now, darling?”

“A… A bit. There’s sssome precum, I mean.” Crowley could hardly get the words out, and Aziraphale was momentarily overwhelmed with the revelation that Crowley hissed when he was aroused. “D’you wanna see?”

“Yes. Yes, show me. Please.”

As Crowley fumbled with his phone to take the photograph, Aziraphale took the moment to try and compose himself. The photo, when it came, was mouthwatering. Crowley held his cock in one hand, squeezing it to bring a fat bead of precum to its tip. Aziraphale licked his lips.

“Taste it,” he said. “I want to see you.”

A pause. “Hang on.”

Aziraphale waited, hardly breathing, hoping Crowley would catch his meaning. When he watched the video Crowley sent next, he knew he had.

Crowley’s fist pumped his cock a few times, slow and perfect, until the head shone. Then he swiped his thumb through the wetness that had built there and moved the camera to capture his face - his whole face, just as Aziraphale had wanted, no longer concerned about anonymity. Crowley kept his eyes cast to the side as he brought his thumb to his lips and sucked, the wet flash of tongue tantalisingly brief.

Aziraphale stared. He was even more beautiful like this than he had imagined. His hair was still wet from the shower, dark strands catching across his forehead. Even without him looking at the camera, Aziraphale could see his eyes were blown fully yellow, and in his cheeks rose two high, pink points that clashed charmingly with his hair. Aziraphale could scarcely breathe.

“Aziraphale?” came Crowley’s voice, tinny and uncertain. “Is… Is that OK?”

He came back to himself, lifting the phone to his ear once more. “It’s perfect,” he said quickly. “You’re… You look…”

“I wish you were here.”

Aziraphale’s mind went blank. Finally, he found his voice. “I want… I want you to touch yourself.”

There was fraction of a pause before Crowley spoke. “Of course,” he said, then seemed to find his footing once more. “Tell me what to do.”

Aziraphale, too, regained his balance at that. He closed his eyes once more, forcing himself to focus. “Do you like having your thighs touched? I want you to stroke them. The insides. Bring your hand up slowly, let yourself enjoy it.”

Crowley let out a breathless laugh, followed by a moan.

“Good boy,” said Aziraphale. “You’re such a good boy for me, Crowley.”

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck, Aziraphale, how do you-”

“Do you still have the dildo with you?”

The suggestion prompted a sound like a whimper, cut off suddenly as Crowley clamped his mouth shut. Aziraphale could hear the hiss of his breath, rapid and tight as he breathed through his nose and tried to control himself. When Crowley finally answered his voice was muffled, as if his hand was covering his face.

“I can’t… I can’t,” he confessed. “I’m too clossse. Aziraphale, I’m…”

The desperation in his made Aziraphale’s head spin. He bit down on his bottom lip, grounding himself in the pain. “It’s alright, darling. I’ve got you. Oh, sweetheart, I want to hear you come,” he said, the words rushing out of him. Crowley’s breathing turned ragged, the edges of his control slipping loose. “I want you to touch your cock for me, Crowley. Squeeze it. Nice and slow.”

“Aziraphale, I want- I want to come,” Crowley begged. “Pleassse. Please, let me come.”

Aziraphale’s hand moved mindlessly to his cock, jerking it without finesse. “Oh, my boy,” he gasped. “Come for me, sweetheart. That’s it. I can hear you want to, you’re so close, you’re such a good boy, come for me, Crowley, come for-”

He was cut off by a strangled cry from Crowley, something that sounded like his name bitten off and stifled. It was enough. Aziraphale came hard and fast, unable to keep from groaning as he spilled over his stomach. Without thinking, he clicked his fingers to clear away the mess before it could spread in the bathwater. Then he let his limbs fall, heavy and boneless, save for the hand that still held his phone loosely against his ear.

He could hear Crowley’s uneven breathing, could almost hear the beat of his heart even down the phone. It felt like an age before either of them spoke.

“You were right,” said Crowley at long last. “That was fun.”

Right. Fun. Of course. Aziraphale smiled, knowing Crowley would hear it if he didn’t.

“I’m glad you thought so,” he said. “I enjoyed myself as well.”

Crowley laughed a little at that. “I should bloody well hope so.” He made a stretching noise, and Aziraphale heard him click his fingers, presumably to perform a similar clean-up to his own. Then he yawned, sudden and huge. “Fuck me, I’m knackered.”

“Mm. Me too.”

“Really? Didn’t think you slept.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t think I do, apparently.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale felt the awkwardness seeping into the conversation.

“I’ll let you go,” he added hurriedly. “Get some sleep.”

“Right.”

“About time I got out of this bath, anyway, or I shall start to go pruney.”

Crowley huffed another little laugh. “Alright then. Talk to you later, angel.”

“Bye bye.”

For a while after Crowley hung up, Aziraphale sat in the bath, unmoving. Slowly, he realised the water had cooled. Most of the tealights had burnt down to nothing, flickering out one by one, leaving him sitting half in darkness. He hadn’t even noticed.

The towel was soft and warm from the radiator, and he wrapped it around himself before turning on the lights. His eyes flicked to the mirror and found it obscured by steam. A small mercy. He wasn’t sure he could look himself in the eye right then.

In his bedroom, climbed into bed, and rolled onto his side, staring at nothing. He should be happy. Happy would make sense. Tonight, they had barrelled through a boundary that Aziraphale had been aching to cross for almost as long as he’d known Crowley. That was cause for joy - wasn’t it?

Of course, he probably felt a little embarrassed as well. It _was_ embarrassing, not least because he felt he really ought to have recognised Crowley sooner.[2] Crowley was an equal participant in that embarrassment, as well as the only witness to it, but that didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

But it had been nice. Very nice. And, depending on how Crowley felt, perhaps it might open up the way to other nice things…

The thought was too much for Aziraphale. He pulled a pillow over his head and concentrated very hard on breathing normally. Happy. He would be happy. He would be a little bit embarrassed, and mostly happy, and tomorrow he would see Crowley and they would talk about it and Crowley would laugh and take charge and say something tremendously witty that would put Aziraphale at ease and things would go back to normal, or they would change, but either way, he would be happy. He would. He _would_.

#

Aziraphale passed most of the night trying to read, hopping between the books piled on his bedside table. None of them could hold his interest for long. By the time he opened the shop at an uncharacteristically conventional hour, he had attempted and abandoned half the books in his bedroom, and almost a third of those in his living room.

The same restless energy carried him through the morning. He found himself picking up his phone and setting it back down again over and over, scarcely ten minutes able to pass without him reaching for the damn thing. A few times he opened his text chat with Crowley, and even got so far as bringing up his keyboard to start writing. But the words never came.

Crowley would know what to say. He was always quicker with words than Aziraphale, always more able to talk himself out of a sticky situation - never mind that he had invariably talked himself into the situation to begin with. For all his love of words and stories, Aziraphale had never had the knack for turning them to his own purposes. Lies flustered him, but honesty was worse, demanding that the words he chose would bear the weight of truth as well as being beautiful. Better to stick to the mundane, middle of the road, and if in doubt, say nothing.

No, he decided, he would wait for Crowley to tell him what had passed between them, his retelling transforming the experience into something Aziraphale could understand, like a baker turning indigestible flour into bread.

He sustained himself on the thought for the rest of the day. There would be an awkward moment as they met each other’s gaze for the first time - but then Crowley’s eyes would crinkle, and he’d make some joke perfectly judged to calm Aziraphale’s nerves even as it made him blush. They’d laugh, the awkwardness evaporating. Crowley, sure-footed as ever, would steer the conversation through whatever difficult water they found themselves in.

Aziraphale didn’t ask himself what he might say - he simply trusted that Crowley would see them through, would know where to push and where to step back, conducting the conversation like a maestro.

At closing time, he flipped the sign on the door and took a seat at his desk, finishing some last pieces of paperwork to fill the time. A movement caught the corner of his eye - Crowley, at last, climbing out of the Bentley and making his sinuous way to the door. Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. He stood, hands clasped nervously in front of him. Time slowed. Crowley reached for the door handle and Aziraphale watched it turn, acutely aware of his own breathing. Crowley stepped inside, head ducked, sweeping a hand through his hair before raising his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale leant forwards, ready for whatever Crowley was going to say next. Crowley opened his mouth, took a breath, and…

“You won’t believe this idiot I just heard on the radio!”

Aziraphale blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Absolute wanker, phoned in just to rant about how ‘leave means leave’ and whatever other bollocks. Honestly, the arrogance of these bloody people…”

The rant continued at such a pace that Aziraphale hardly able to keep up. Speechless, he watched as Crowley paced back and forth, arms waving as he spoke. Eventually Crowley gestured some acerbic point home with an emphatic jab of his hand, and looked up at Aziraphale expectantly. Aziraphale realised, belatedly, that he was expected to make some response.

“I suppose people are entitled to their opinions,” he managed weakly.

“Well they bloody shouldn’t be! Where’s it ever got anyone, having opinions? They should ration them - here you go, Joe Bloggs, you can have one opinion a week, don’t waste it. Oops, what’s that? You think mint choc chip ice cream is disgusting? Noted, now keep your mouth shut for a week and give us all a break.”

“…I like mint choc chip.”

“Of course you do, you’ve got taste! But that’s the thing about opinions, isn’t it? If everyone’s free to have them, they’re free to have terrible ones, and where does that get you? 2016, that’s where. Do you want to get dinner before the show?”

“I… I don’t…”

Crowley checked his watch, head tilted to one side. “If you do, we really ought to go now. There’s a noodle place in St Giles I’ve been meaning to take you - what do you say?”

Aziraphale latched onto the question like a lifebelt. “Noodles,” he said. “Yes. Like noodles. I do, I mean.”

Crowley breezed on, blind to Aziraphale’s befuddlement. “Brilliant! I think you’ll like this place, apparently their ramen is impeccable.”

And with that, he was off again, chatting away like a shark that would drown if it stopped swimming.

The drive to the restaurant took about ten minutes. Crowley talked as he drove, something about a trip to Japan he’d taken, or hoped to take - Aziraphale wasn’t sure, still too flustered to properly attend. Every time he looked at Crowley, he remembered all over again the photos, the videos, the sound of Crowley’s breath down the phone as he panted and begged…

But there was Crowley, getting on as if nothing had happened. Aziraphale couldn’t understand it. Worse, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it. He tried to pay attention to what Crowley was saying and let himself be borne along by the bubble and flow of their usual back and forth. But his tongue was heavy and lifeless in his mouth, and it took all his attention to keep from saying something he might regret, let alone actually contributing to the conversation.

Slowly, Crowley’s stream of conversation trickled to a stop. By the time they pulled up in front of the restaurant, he had said nothing for a number of minutes. He was out of the car and across the road before Aziraphale had even opened the passenger side door.

The air inside the restaurant was hot and damp and delicious, seats packed with customers and windows steamed white. The chefs worked in full sight of their customers, their quick efficiency adding to the buzzing, convivial atmosphere. Aziraphale looked around him as they took their seats, a smile forming as he took it all in. But when he turned back to Crowley, the smile died.

Crowley’s jaw was tight as he stared at the menu in front of him, not meeting Aziraphale’s eye. For all the noise of the restaurant, the space between them was tense with silence. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something once, twice - then gave up. When the waiter came to take their order, he picked a dish at random from the menu. Crowley handed the waiter his menu and ordered a green tea.

“Not hungry?” asked Aziraphale when the waiter had gone.

Crowley seemed not to have heard. He was looking at his nails, pushing at the cuticles. It would have seemed nonchalant if his knee hadn’t been bouncing so fast beneath the table that the chopsticks rattled.

“Not really,” he said. His tone was flat and final.

They were still sitting in silence when the food arrived. Aziraphale was relieved to discover he’d ordered tonkostu, and reached for it gladly - a welcome distraction. It was delicious, with rich, creamy stock, melt in the mouth chashu pork belly, and a perfect, gooey egg. He let himself be absorbed by the meal, slurping his noodles to let the air enliven the flavours. When he finished, he sat back from his bowl with a contented sigh.

“How was it?” asked Crowley.

Their eyes met, and for a split second everything felt wonderfully normal again. Aziraphale wanted to say something, wanted to bring this thing between them wriggling into the light where they could hold it up, see it for what it was. He could see the shape of Crowley’s eyes behind his sunglasses, could see the tension in his mouth, and all he wanted in the world was to say something to soothe those hard lines, to bring back the easy smiles he’d grown to-

“It was very good,” he blurted. “Thank you for bringing me.”

If Crowley was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “No problem,” he said with an elegant shrug. “We should get moving, let them clear the table.”

“What about your-” Aziraphale started to say, but Crowley interrupted by flagging down a passing waiter.

“Could we get the bill? Thanks,” he smiled.

It was the most sincere smile Aziraphale had seen from him all evening.

#

They got to the theatre early, and by silent, mutual agreement made a beeline for the bar.[3] Try as Aziraphale might, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Crowley sat twisted in his seat to watch people arriving. Usually, Aziraphale found Crowley’s people-watching endearing, and would happily share theories on who people were, where they had come from, what possible excuse they could have for matching that hat with those shoes. But tonight Aziraphale felt like an awkward child at a birthday party, uncertain if his presence was welcome or merely tolerated.

The stage doors finally opened, and together they made their way through the press of people to take their seats in the lower gallery. The Wanamaker was one of Aziraphale’s favourite London theatres, built using plans from the 17th century and as historically accurate as modern health and safety laws would allow. Stepping into its candlelit space always gave Aziraphale a momentary spell of double vision, reality superimposed with the memories of theatres long since lost to time where he and Crowley would settle into the dark to share a story with the people around them. Every play they saw was like witnessing creation in miniature, the birth of a universe sustained by its own witnessing. It made Aziraphale’s head spin if he thought about it too long.

He and Crowley found their seats among the rows of wooden benches - close enough to see what was happening on stage, but not so close that they risked An Interaction.[4] Without thinking, they each clicked their fingers before sitting, and a pair of cushions appeared side by side, one in tartan, the other in black. As a historical reconstruction, the wooden seating in the Wanamaker was charmingly authentic. As actual seating, it was nigh unbearable.

The theatre smelled beautiful, all warm wood and beeswax. Aziraphale closed his eyes, breathing it in. It was a gorgeous space, made more gorgeous by the glow of candlelight. On the ceiling, a mural of stars and clouds and fluttering cherubs depicted the goddess Luna, haloed in gold leaf. It was beautiful enough that for a moment, he forgot that he and Crowley were… whatever they were. He smiled, lost in the building buzz of anticipation as the rest of the audience took their seats.

On his free side, a woman accidentally knocked into Aziraphale as she sat down. They both rushed to apologise to one another, and unthinkingly Aziraphale scooted sideways in his seat to give her more space. The movement pressed him against Crowley, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. Two days ago, it would have been nothing. But tonight, Crowley jerked back from the touch, banging his knee into the wooden barrier beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale tried, but Crowley waved the apology away, rubbing his knee.

“It’s fine,” he said tightly. “Not your fault.”

“All the same…”

“I said it’s fine, angel. Don’t go on about it.”

Aziraphale deflated. “Sorry,” he said again, before he could stop himself.

He fixed his gaze on the stage, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. All at once, the intimacy of the theatre had lurched from magical to excruciating. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to sit through an hour and a half of Crowley holding himself tense and distant beside him, flinching from even the most accidental touch. His hands tightened on the programme in his lap, crumpling the paper.

“Angel? It’s fine, don’t worry about-”

“Are you-” Aziraphale started, catching himself too late. Well, he supposed, he’d started so he might as well finish. He fixed Crowley with a wretched look. “Are you angry with me?”

Crowley’s expression transformed from concern to horror. “What? Angry? No, of course not, it was an acci-”

“Not about the knee.”

“Then what…? Oh.” His face softened, meeting Aziraphale’s eye for the first time since the restaurant. “Aziraphale,” he said gently. “I’m… I’m not angry.”

Aziraphale wished they were doing this anywhere other than a room full of 300-odd strangers. “You seem angry. You’ve seemed angry all evening. I’m sorry if I-”

“You didn’t.” Crowley’s voice was firm, almost stern. “I’m just… I’m…”

He paused, trying to find the words. But before he could continue, the houselights dimmed, and the audience shuffled into silence. Aziraphale glanced over as a woman with a cello took the stage. He looked back at Crowley, wanting to continue - but the woman started to play, and the moment was gone. Aziraphale sighed, turning away, resignation slumping his shoulders. There was a moment’s pause - and then, quite without warning, Crowley’s hand found his, long fingers wrapping around his palm and squeezing. Aziraphale squeezed back, and the awful knot that had been twisting itself around his chest loosened, ever so slightly.

#

The show was marvellous. It consisted of dramatic readings of five ghost stories, all written specially for that production (apart from an obligatory Poe), and ranged from the darkly atmospheric to the shiveringly strange. The fear was an indulgence, just as much as rich food or fine wine, and Aziraphale threw himself into it as whole-heartedly as he did all his indulgences. It was a delight to be frightened so thoroughly and so well, safe in the knowledge that no real harm could come of it. Throughout it all, Crowley’s hand rested, warm and dry, in Aziraphale’s own.

The only lighting for the performances came from a pair of chandeliers that raised and lowered as the story required. As one of the stories started to build towards its final climax, the chandeliers dropped to within reach of the performer. Slowly, methodically, without a pause in her performance, the actor began to snuff out the candles one by one.

The light dropped slowly at first, speeding up exponentially as more and more of the lights were extinguished. She reached for the final candle - a single, flickering flame against the dark. And then, just as the actor revealed the awful, sickening truth at the heart of her tale, the flame was gone.

A collective gasp, the sound of 300 bodies flinching in their seats as they were plunged masterfully into primal fear. The dark was absolute. Aziraphale jumped along with everybody else, squeaking with delighted horror. In a fluid movement, Crowley slipped his fingers between Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale felt him lean in close, his lips almost brushing Aziraphale’s ear as he whispered.

“Boo!”

A flame flared in the dark - the actor, lighting a match to restore light to the stage before the next story began. When Aziraphale looked at Crowley, he was leaning away again, a smile dancing on his lips. Aziraphale smiled too, feeling the beat of Crowley’s heart where their fingers laced together.

When the houselights came up, Aziraphale reluctantly retrieved his hand to join the applause. In keeping with Crowley’s usual habit, they exited the auditorium without speaking, though Crowley seemed not to be paying much attention to the conversations that eddied and flowed around them. A stillness had come over him. It wasn’t the silent, anxious tension of earlier in the evening - that seemed to have eased, thank Someone. Crowley was lost in thought, turning something over in his mind. Aziraphale knew there was no point pressing him for an explanation before he was ready. In his experience, saints had nothing on snakes for patience.

Crowley’s quiet didn’t lift as they walked to the car. Climbing into the passenger seat, Aziraphale had the strange feeling of running parallel to reality, as if the imagined world of the theatre had left him out of step with the world of cars, people, gravity, logic.

“I always find myself a little surprised to find the world still standing when I leave the theatre,” he said, looking out the window as Crowley put the Bentley into reverse.

Crowley reached out to brace his hand on the back of the passenger seat and twisted in his seat.

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, easing the Bentley out of its parking space. “I know what you mean.”

Aziraphale kept his eyes fixed front, ignoring the closeness of Crowley’s hand, the smell of his aftershave, the stretch of his neck as he squinted out of the rear window.[5] When they pulled onto the road, he let out the breath he’d been holding, relaxing very slightly.

They drove in companionable silence, a stark contrast to the frantic chatter of earlier in the evening. Aziraphale watched the streetlights as they passed, mesmerised by their steady rhythm. When the Bentley pulled to a stop, the dark windows of the shop looked cold and lifeless.

“Here you are,” said Crowley, unnecessarily.

The engine was still running. Aziraphale reached for the door handle, then stopped. He turned back to Crowley, a question on his lips. Crowley looked back at him, one eyebrow slightly raised, waiting for Aziraphale to speak. But Aziraphale’s bravery faltered, and the question died on his lips before he could muster up the courage to ask.

“Thank you,” he said, doing his best to smile. “For the tickets, I mean. It was a lovely show.”

Crowley’s expression was neutral, the black of his sunglasses absolute in the low light. “Sure,” he said. “Any time.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well. Goodnight, then.”

“Night.”

He nodded again. And, finding nothing else to say, and not knowing what else he _could_ do, he stepped out of the car, shut the door, and was in the shop before Crowley had even pulled away from the curb.

Upstairs, he leant against the closed door of the flat, frowning. “Strange night,” he said aloud. The empty air made his voice sound flat and lifeless.

He busied himself gathering up some snacks,[6] put Florence Price’s Symphony No. 1 on the stereo, and settled onto the sofa with a copy of _Frankenstein_. He was just diving into the story when his phone - forgotten in his pocket since Crowley’s arrival at the shop - vibrated. Of course it was from Crowley.

It was a photo. Nothing scandalous - if he’d received it while talking to “Gen” he would have thought it positively tame. It showed Crowley’s torso, his face out of shot, his black shirt unbuttoned to his solar plexus, hanging open to reveal a strip of pale chest scattered with sparse hair. Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on his collar bones and the lovely hollow at the base of his throat before the lines of the shirt dragged his eyes - and his thoughts - further down Crowley’s body.

With the photo came a text.

‘wanna chat?’

Aziraphale blinked. Of all the things he’d expected from the evening, this was not one of them. He raised his thumbs to reply, but didn’t know what to say. Everything was still so new and strange. He didn’t know what he wanted. No, he admitted to himself, that wasn’t true, He knew very well what he wanted. He just didn’t know how much he might be permitted to ask for. It was a knot too difficult for him to approach that night, and he let out a heavy sigh.

‘I’m sorry, dear boy, but not tonight. Lovely photo though,’ he added, not wanting to sound dismissive.

It took a long time for Crowley to answer. Probably watching television, Aziraphale thought, or got distracted by something on his phone. Aziraphale turned back to his book, and was well under way when Crowley finally answered.

‘no worries, have a nice night. ttyl x’

At least he didn’t seem to have caused any offence. ‘Sleep well,’ he wrote back. ‘Speak to you tomorrow.’

He set his phone aside and picked up his book once more, wriggling around until he found a comfortable position. He’d made the right choice, he told himself. An noble act of self-denial. Without looking, he used his fingers to tear a sizeable chunk of brie off from a larger block and stuffed it into his mouth. He _hated_ self-denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He’d seen Crowley naked before, of course, but this was different. This was very different. There had been… angles. Postures. _Intentions_.
> 
> [2] A dark, slithery little voice in the back of his head started to whisper at that. How ignorant had he been of the similarities, really? Could he really look back over his past lovers and deny that, for all their differences, there were a number of recurring motifs among them? Long legs, quick wits, sharp tongues, brown eyes that caught the sun in just such a shade of honey - not to mention the sheer statistical unlikeliness of that many redheads. Had Gen really been any different, in that respect?
> 
> [3] It is a truth universally acknowledged that two immortal beings in the throes of an extremely awkward social situation must be in want of a drink.
> 
> [4] Not that Aziraphale would have minded - he loved audience participation, anything ranging from a significant moment of eye contact to full-on he’s-behind-you shouting. He was always the first to raise his hand if a volunteer from the audience was needed, practically vibrating in his seat with excitement. Crowley, on the other hand, would literally rather discorporate than suffer such an indignity, which of course meant he was invariably called on while Aziraphale turned slowly green with envy.
> 
> [5] Compared to the other thoughts he’d been fending off this evening, this was child’s play, and nothing he wasn’t thoroughly used to. At least Crowley’s driving usually provided distraction - albeit a rather terrifying one.
> 
> [6] Or, more candidly, an entire cheeseboard complete with grapes and crackers, accompanied by the last of the Cannonau.


	10. On the Upwards Velocity of Sparks and Starlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chelsea throws a Bonfire Night party, Crowley makes a new friend, and Aziraphale's feelings finally manage to get his attention. The boys are barrelling towards something - but what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhh if you wanted to throw rocks at my head before, this is not going to help the impulse! i only ask that you use sustainably sourced rocks and remember, dont lift pebbles from the beach because they help defend against coastal erosion! #leavenotrace #ethicalauthorabuse
> 
> cw for light cannabis use, canon-typical alcohol consumption, and getting hit in the face with a two-by-four made of pure emotion
> 
> as always, drop me a line if there's something you think needs warned for either in the chapter cw or the full work tags.
> 
> come and shout at me on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if you like - otherwise, see you in the comments....! :D

Saturdays were always busy days in the shop, which was why Aziraphale tended not to open. This week, though, he thought the distraction might do him good. Better to be busy than to spend the day gnawing over everything that had happened in the last few days. If Crowley had been there it might have been different, he might have found the courage to sit down and have a proper conversation about things.

As soon as he thought it, his stomach clenched. Perhaps not.

He wished he had a fraction of Crowley’s self-confidence. Maybe then he’d be able to face these things head on instead of waiting, miserable in his cowardice, to follow Crowley’s lead.

He thought of the short time he’d spent masquerading as Crowley, wearing his body into the very depths of hell. It felt ridiculous to say it, and of course a good part of him had been scared witless by the whole ordeal, but to his surprise a far larger part had actually enjoyed itself. Quite apart from the ripping heroics of it all - two friends plunging into the heart of enemy territory to save one another! Aziraphale fairly swooned at the thought - he’d found great pleasure in the impersonation. He’d relished channelling Crowley’s wonderful, larger-than-life energy, making the most of his strutting, cockerel arrogance in the face of danger.[1]

He longed for that bravery now. Sensibly, he knew that what he ought to do was ask Crowley to come round, sit him down, and talk about what had passed between them. Clear the air, whatever the outcome.

Instead, he spent the day doing whatever he could to keep his mind firmly off the matter. They had agreed their plans for the evening on Thursday afternoon, before the fateful telephone conversation that had thrown everything into such disarray. Chelsea lived close to the train station in Blackheath, and they’d decided to meet at Victoria and travel down by train rather than taking the Bentley.

Aziraphale closed up the shop a little early, giving himself plenty of time to get to Victoria. It was more than half an hour’s walk and was already getting dark as he locked the door and went to count up the till. But the air was crisp and clear, the smell of woodsmoke wreathing through the evening, and he was itching to stretch his legs. It was all very well staying cosy and comfortable, but even he had his limits.

With the shop squared away, he fetched his coat, gloves, and scarf and started bundling himself up against the cold. As he wound the scarf around his neck, the smell of Crowley’s cologne rose from the wool - faint, but unmistakable. A remnant from their night at the National, he realised. It felt like months ago now. Blushing at his own ridiculousness, but unable to resist, Aziraphale pressed the wool to his face and inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as he breathed the scent in. For a moment, he stood, swaying very slightly, lost in the mouth-watering smell. Then he opened his eyes, swallowing hard, and pushed the scarf down inside the front of his coat. That was quite enough of that.

#

Crowley was in fine fetter when they met at the station, cheerful and chatty with none of the frantic energy of the night before. He seemed to have turned a corner, and though Aziraphale wasn’t sure what that corner was or what it might mean, he was so glad to have Crowley back to his usual self that he decided not to press the issue. He couldn’t bear the idea that what had passed between them might threaten their friendship. Above all, he couldn’t face losing that. So he decided to follow Crowley’s lead, and try his best to enjoy the evening without thinking about what had happened earlier in the week.

They’d missed the worst of rush hour, thank goodness, but the carriage was still tightly packed by the time it pulled into Blackheath. There, the majority of passengers surged out as from a burst dam, carrying Crowley and Aziraphale along in their wake.

Chelsea lived not far from the station, and they walked to her building in companionable quiet. As they walked, Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s outfit underneath his unbuttoned coat.

“You look very nice,” he said, making Crowley snort.

“No need to sound so surprised.”

Aziraphale tutted. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think I’ve seen you in knitwear since the 1960s, that’s all.”

The outfit wasn’t too dissimilar to the kind of thing Crowley had worn in the ’60s, though sharpened up for modern sensibilities. He wore a mock turtleneck jumper in a wool so soft and fine that it could only have been cashmere. Black wool trousers accentuated his slim frame, and his boots were smart black lace-ups with a stripe of burgundy up either side. Taken together with the sleek lines of his coat, the effect was remarkable.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, a smile tugging at his lips. “You look good too,” he said.

“Me? I’m dressed the same as always.”

To that, Crowley said nothing.

Chelsea’s flat was on the second floor, and after she’d buzzed them up they made their way to the balcony at the back of the house where her front door was. The balcony overlooked a communal garden that would be lovely in summer, but which now sat sullen and overgrown. In contrast, the light coming from the kitchen window was warm and golden, and as they drew close they could hear the sound of music and laughter.

Chelsea spotted them from the window as they passed and her face broke into an enormous smile. She threw open the door before they could knock, letting out a blast of noise and warmth.

“You came!” she exclaimed, delighted.

She hugged them both and chattered happily as she took their coats. Crowley looked, impossibly, even more dashing without the coat, his sleeves pulled halfway up to his elbows.[2] Aziraphale pulled his eyes away, concentrated on what Chelsea was saying.

“I’m so glad you could make it! I’ve been wanting to have a Bonfire Night party ever since I moved over - we do fireworks at Hallowe’en in Ireland and it seemed like a nice substitute for that, only I never had the space in any of my old places for a proper party and I’ve missed it something terrible. Here, Teddy’s in the kitchen with the mulled wine - they brought a date!” she added, dropping her voice conspiratorially.

“Is that Aziraphale and Anthony?” came Teddy’s voice, on cue. Chelsea ushered them into the kitchen, and Teddy threw their arms around them each in turn.

“Hello, my dear,” said Aziraphale warmly, kissing their cheek.

“Hiya! What a treat, to see you again so soon! Anthony, are you hugging tonight?”

“Since you asked nicely,” Crowley said, smiling. “You look fantastic!” he added, and to Aziraphale’s surprise, he lifted Teddy’s arm and led them into a giggling spin.

“Oh, you’re too much!” laughed Teddy, loving every bit of the attention. They held their hand out to the final person in the kitchen and pulled them into the fray, squeezing them around the waist as they made their introductions. “Anthony, Aziraphale, I want you to meet Henry - Henry, I told you about these two, they’re the friends from the bookshop.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Henry, offering each of them a warm handshake.

He was short man with thick rimmed glasses, a salt and pepper beard, and a septum piercing. Between introductions and small talk, he spent his time looking at Teddy with an expression of dazed adoration. It was, Aziraphale felt, exactly the reaction Teddy deserved, and he immediately warmed to the man.

Kitchen successfully mingled, Chelsea led them through to the living room. It was a charming space, lined in shelves that burst with board games, pot plants, crystals and candles. Fairy lights had been strung across the shelves, though it wasn’t clear if these were decorations or more permanent fixtures. Knowing Chelsea, Aziraphale suspected the latter. Mismatched blankets and cushions were scattered haphazardly over the furniture, and on the walls hung framed palmistry diagrams, brass reliefs of the phases of the moon, and black and white photographs of forests, rivers, rolling clouds.

Aziraphale had been faintly worried the night might be too boisterous for his tastes. But he was relieved to find people sitting together on the sofa or on cushions on the floor, chatting happily, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Part of the reason for this relaxed atmosphere was the presence of a little girl in the midst of the grown-ups. She looked about four or five years old, and was dragging as many adults as she could into a complicated game of make believe involving a bucket of plastic farm animals and a headless Barbie.

“Hey, everyone,” said Chelsea as they walked in. “This is Aziraphale and Anthony. You two, this is… everyone!”

There were some scattered calls of hello and welcome, interrupted by the little girl. “I’m not everyone!” she protested, waving her Barbie emphatically in Chelsea’s direction. “I’m Zehra!”

“I’m so sorry, Zehra! You’re totally right,” said Chelsea, contrite. “If anyone in the room deserves a special introduction, it’s you. Aziraphale, Anthony, this is our very special guest of honour, Zehra.”

Aziraphale did his best. He waved at the girl and smiled, trying to emit an aura of benign friendliness. Zehra was not convinced. She narrowed her eyes, sensing fear, as all young children can.

Mercifully, Crowley interceded. He dropped down to Zehra’s level and held out a hand for her to shake. It would have been hopelessly awkward if Aziraphale did it, but somehow, Crowley pulled it off.

“Hello,” said Crowley cheerfully. “My name’s Anthony. Are those your wellies in the hall? The pink ones, with glitter on?”

Zehra straightened herself up in a queenly pose and shook his outstretched hand with sombre dignity. “Yes,” she replied, haughtily. “They light up.”

“Wow! That’s so cool!”

Zehra smiled the knowing smile of one who is secure in their sophistication, but glad to have it recognised. “Thank you,” she said gracefully. “Why are you wearing sunglasses? It’s nighttime. And we’re inside. _And_ it’s winter, _and_ we aren’t even at a beach.”

On the sofa, a woman in red dungarees choked on her drink. She had Zehra’s black hair, but where Zehra’s fell in a ridiculous tumult around her shoulders, the woman’s was cropped close and curly.

“Zehra!” she spluttered. “You can’t-”

“It’s alright,” smiled Crowley. “I don’t mind her asking. I’ve got a thing,” he said, turning back to Zehra, “with my eyes. They hurt if the light’s too bright. I can still see OK, but I keep my sunglasses on so they don’t get hurt.”

Zehra considered this. “Do you wear different ones at the beach?” she asked eventually.

“Course. They’re red, and shaped like love-hearts.”

Zehra giggled, and with that, she and Crowley were fast friends. She took his hand in hers once more and pulled him away, already telling him every detail of her make-believe game.

Released from the spectre of interacting with an under-18, Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief and found a seat near the sofa. The woman in dungarees leant over, her hand over her heart.

“I’m sorry about Zehra,” she said. “You know what kids are like.”

Aziraphale waved the apology away. “Oh, no, my dear, don’t worry about it. She’s just curious. And I promise, Anthony doesn’t mind in the least.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I’m Aziraphale,” he said, holding out his hand for the woman to shake. She swapped the glass of lemonade she was drinking over to her left hand and shook it, smiling.

“I’m Işıl,” she said. “Nice to meet you. That’s my wife, Lena, over there,” she said, nodding towards a woman in black jeans sitting on the floor with Crowley, Zehra and some others.

He and Işıl sat for a moment watching Zehra and the grown ups play. They had moved on from the plastic animals and had a game of Exquisite Corpse underway. Zehra kept trying to peek at what Crowley was drawing, climbing up his back and clambering over his legs, each attempt sillier than the last until both of them were in a giggling heap. Aziraphale and Işıl watched the nonsense unfold with near identical expressions of exasperated fondness.

“Do you have kids yourself?” said Işıl after a while.

Aziraphale pulled a face. “No,” he said. “No, that was, um, never on the cards. Truth be told, I’m hopeless with children,” he confessed.

Işıl leant in closer, dropping her voice to a confessional hiss. “Me too! Honestly, they’re a nightmare. Not Zehra,” she added quickly. “She’s a dream, I love hanging out with her. But other people’s kids? Ugh. They’re so _boring_!”

“They’re terrible conversationalists,” Aziraphale laughed, only partly joking. “They’ve never read anything worth talking about.”

“They haven’t read any books, seen any movies, they don’t know anything about music.” Işıl ticked the points off her fingers one by one. “What are you supposed to talk about? Colours? How many shapes you both know?”

“I always know more shapes,” Aziraphale said sombrely, making Işıl burst out laughing.

The conversation was an easy one, and continued through Chelsea bringing them each a cup of mulled wine - non-alcoholic for Işıl - and over the increasingly raucous laughter coming from Zehra and her entourage. At about twenty to eight, people started getting ready to walk up to the heath for the fireworks, filling the flat with noise and business. When Işıl got up to help Zehra get ready, Crowley hauled himself up off the floor and collapsed into the space she left on the sofa.

“She’s a live one!” said Crowley, giddy and a little out of breath. His hair was ruffled from wrestling Zehra, and Aziraphale knew his eyes would be sparkling behind the glasses. He offered his mug of mulled wine but Crowley waved it away. “No, thanks. Too sticky. Is there any water?”

Aziraphale reached, and found a glass of ice water on the windowsill where none had been before. Crowley took it gladly, swallowing a few mouthfuls before settling back in his seat.

“How are you, are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, very much,” said Aziraphale. “Though not quite as energetically as you,” he added, sipping the wine.

“Ah, she’s a great kid.”

“She’s certainly taken a shine to you.”

“Doesn’t take much, to be fair. Kids are easy - swing ’em about by their ankles for a bit and you’re their new best friend.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Well, when you put it like that - positively simple!”

Crowley set his water down on the floor beside him and leant back, hands behind his head. “You could read to them,” he said. “They love books.”

“Hmm.”

A sly, teasing look started to spread over Crowley’s face. “What’s wrong, angel? Don’t like the thought of sticky little hands on your first editions? Snotty noses, dribbly mouths, little fingers covered in jam, smearing over the one-of-a-kind marginalia?”

It was too much. “It’s always jam!” Aziraphale lamented. “Why is it they’re always covered in jam?”

Crowley laughed, and was still laughing when Zehra bounced back into the living room wearing a rainbow striped anorak and a bobble hat.

“Anthony!” she shouted, much too loud for the room, and ran over to speak with him. “Anthony, are you ready to go? You can walk with me. Look, I’ve got my wellies on - look!” And she stomped her feet to make the lights in the soles of her wellies flash pink and blue and green.

Crowley leant forwards to look at them, sincerely impressed. “Fantastic! I just need to grab my coat on the way out.” He got to his feet and squeezed the bobble on Zehra’s hat, making her giggle. “Do you have any gloves to wear?” he asked, his hand resting on the top of her head. Zehra craned her neck to look up at him. “You need to wear gloves if you’re going to hold a sparkler.”

Zehra’s face fell, and to Aziraphale’s horror she looked suddenly like she might cry. “I don’t have any! I had them but I left them on the bus when we went to visit Anneanne but I didn’t get any new ones yet!”

“You can borrow mine,” said Aziraphale. Zehra jumped. He didn’t blame her - he’d surprised himself too. Not sure how to answer, Zehra looked first up at Crowley then back at Aziraphale. “Anthony doesn’t have any either,” he explained, as gently as he could. “But I do, and I don’t mind waiting for a sparkler. So you could have one of my gloves, and Anthony can have the other, and then you can do your sparklers together.”

Zehra chewed her lip, suddenly shy. One hand reached up to hold Crowley’s waistband, and she shuffled to stand closer to him. “Th’nk y’,” she mumbled, and hid her face in Crowley’s leg.

Aziraphale felt unaccountably embarrassed, but Crowley just laughed and patted Zehra on the head.

“Thanks, Aziraphale,” he said easily. “That’s really kind.”

“You’re welcome,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll go and fetch them now.”

He caught Crowley’s eye as he passed, and Crowley smiled at him, a moment of quiet warmth amid the noise.

#

The party guests bundled out of the flat in a bubbling, laughing crowd. Blackheath, a bastion of liberal middle class wealth, still retained a sense of small town charm, and it was easy as they walked down its main street, lined with independent greengrocers and butchers and delis, to forget that they were still in London at all.[3] Others were walking through the streets as well, families and clusters of friends, their breaths puffing white in the winter air. All were heading north, towards the public green from which the area took its name.

People came and went, walking with Aziraphale for a short way before being pulled off by some other demand of the buzzing, busy night. He didn’t mind. It was lovely to have first Chelsea’s arm slung around his shoulders as she chatted about star signs, then Lena at his elbow introducing herself properly, then Teddy pulling him over to adjudicate in a debate between them and Henry about the best romantic comedy.[4]

Even when he found himself walking alone, he was buoyed along by the energy of everyone around him. At one point, he looked ahead and saw Crowley carrying Zehra on one bony hip, as naturally as if he was made for it. Lena and Işıl were a short way off, walking arm in arm, quiet and comfortable in each other’s company. They were well within reach if they were needed but the small distance offered the two women a respite from Zehra’s attentions, and Aziraphale wasn’t surprised to see them enjoying it.

Aziraphale was close enough that he could hear bits of Zehra and Crowley’s conversation drifting over to him. He wasn’t listening, exactly, but Zehra’s voice was high and clear, even as she attempted to whisper.

“Is he really your friend?” she was asking Crowley.

“He really is,” Crowley assured her. “My best friend. Do you have a best friend?”

“Yeah, I’ve got four,” Zehra said dismissively, not ready to change the subject. “He’s so serious though.”

“Serious? Aziraphale? He’s not serious at all.”

“He looks serious.”

“Does he? I think he looks quite silly most of the time.” Aziraphale smiled to himself, too affectionate to be offended. Crowley continued, “Would you like to know how you can tell he’s not serious?”

Crowley looked over his shoulder in Aziraphale’s direction. Even in the dark Aziraphale could see the edges of his smile. He looked away, unable to keep his own smile from spreading. Zehra twisted around to look too, forcing Aziraphale to school his face into careful blankness so’s not to make her feel shy.

“First thing,” he heard Crowley saying, “is what he’s wearing.”

Zehra made a doubtful noise. “Suits are quite sensible, Anthony,” she said, and Aziraphale had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing at the disapproval in her voice.

“Not the suit. What else does he have on? On his neck?”

Zehra squinted at Aziraphale, who at just that moment found himself deeply interested in the lamppost they were passing, craning his neck back to see it better - and quite by coincidence giving Zehra a perfect view of his…

“Bow tie!” she said, excitedly. “Aren’t bow ties sensible?”

“No,” said Crowley, with absolute certainty. “They’re ridiculous. Completely silly.”

Zehra giggled, then cut off as a new thought came to her. “There’s a lady at the library who wears a bow tie,” she pointed out. “She’s sensible.”

“Is she a librarian?”

“Yeah, she reads the stories at story-time.”

“Then I’m afraid she probably isn’t very sensible at all.” Zehra opened her mouth to argue, flush with outrage, and Crowley rushed to explain. “Librarians are notoriously good at making people think that they’re really, really sensible, when actually they’re just about as silly as you can be. You should try making friends with some, they’re great fun. Let me ask you this,” he pressed on, when Zehra remained unconvinced. “When that lady reads the stories - does she do all the voices?”

“Of course,” said Zehra, mildly offended that Crowley would even ask. What kind of sub-par story-time did he think she was attending?

“Even the silly, squeaky ones? And the big booming ones? And the gruff, scratchy, old man ones?”

“Yeah, she does all of them, and she pulls faces and does songs with actions and- Oh! Oh, she’s…!”

“Really, really silly,” Crowley confirmed, with a sombre nod.

This revelation stunned Zehra into silence for a good thirty seconds. She settled her head on Crowley’s shoulder, facing backwards to look thoughtfully at Aziraphale. Their little party reached the edge of the heath at last, and Crowley lifted Zehra down to walk alongside him on the grass, holding his hand. The heath was full of people but Zehra was easy to keep track of, her wellies flashing with every step.

“Second thing?” she said.

“Hmm?”

“You said first thing, and it was the bow tie. For what means you know Az- Azra- Arizoffle isn’t sensible.”

“Ah, yes. The second thing is his hair.”

“Because of it being white? That’s not silly, that just happens when you’re old. Or if you’re like Rachel who I go to nursery with, she has white hair and wears sunglasses because she’s got a thing like you where the sun hurts her eyes.”

“Oh, no, that’s not silly at all. That’s just the way people are made sometimes. No, I meant how fluffy it is - every morning, Arizoffle wakes up and looks in the mirror and decides that once again, he’s going to choose to look like a fluffy little cloud with a man stuck to its bottom. If that isn’t silly, I don’t know what is.”

At that, Zehra laughed and laughed. “It’s like feathers!” she said.

“Makes me think of dandelion fluff,” Crowley agreed.

“Is it soft?”

“Oh, soft as anything,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale felt an unaccountable surge of warmth at the words. He kept his eyes fixed on the crowds, grateful that the dark would hide his pinking cheeks.

At a kind of silent consensus, the party came to a stop after walking a small distance onto the heath. Chelsea had brought a Thermos full of mulled wine and started passing it out to those who wanted it. Aziraphale took the paper cup she offered with a grateful smile. All around them, people were milling about, waving sparklers and laughing as they waited for the display to begin.

As they’d planned, Zehra and Crowley were among the first to be given sparklers, along with Teddy, Henry and a few others. All of the adults demonstrated impeccable sparkler technique, with sharp words from Zehra if they dared to hold their sparkler too close to another person, or if anyone was seen handling a sparkler without gloves. Aziraphale stood with Chelsea and drank his wine, fuzzy and content, watching their laughing faces lit up against the dark. The air was cold and clear, and the camaraderie of the crowds and the heat of the wine combined to fill Aziraphale with warmth.

Finally, it came time for the display itself. As soon as she realised what was happening, Zehra ran to Işıl and Lena, begging to be lifted onto Lena’s shoulders. Crowley stuffed his sparkler point-down into the mud and made his way to Aziraphale.

“Here you go,” he said, handing back Aziraphale’s gloves. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stood side by side, looking in the general direction the display would begin. They were close enough that their arms nudged against each other, a gentle pressure that anchored Aziraphale’s attention amid the excitement building in the crowd.

“Do you remember the first time you saw fireworks?” Crowley asked without looking round.

Aziraphale thought. “Do you know, I don’t think I do. How about you?”

“I was in Uppsala,” said Crowley, apparently as surprised by the fact as Aziraphale. “Of all places. Don’t remember why - something to do with the university, maybe? Or the king? Or… both?”

His face twisted in a way Aziraphale knew meant he was following a thought down a rabbit hole and might not resurface for some time. He waited, watching the flicker of movement in Crowley’s face as he sifted through centuries’ old memories.

“Did you enjoy them?” he asked, pulling Crowley’s awareness back to present.

“Hmm?”

“The fireworks. In Uppsala. Did you enjoy them?”

Crowley’s mouth softened, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the sky. “They were amazing. Never seen anything like it."

A remarkable claim from someone who had literally brought stars into being. But Aziraphale believed it. He imagined Crowley in the wild chaos of light and noise, his bright, astonished pride when he saw that his clever, crafty humans had found a way to set fire to the very sky.

“I wish I’d been there,” said Aziraphale, the thought slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it. Crowley looked at him, eyebrows raised. Aziraphale felt unaccountably pinned by the look, as if he were a butterfly mounted on a slip of cardboard.

“We’ve seen fireworks together plenty of times,” Crowley said.

“I know. But…” A bubble of bravery rose in Aziraphale. “I… I would have liked to see you seeing them. For the first time.”

The words hung in the air between them, feathered with honesty. Crowley was about to answer - when a gasp went up from the crowd. His attention was caught immediately, his head snapped back around to watch the first fireworks shooting into the sky. His expression became one of brilliant excitement as showers of light reflected in his glasses.

With everyone’s attention firmly captured, the display began in earnest. The sky was crossed with trailing arcs of gold that shivered as they drifted into sparks. Shooting stars with crackling tails, red and silver rockets, trailing vines that faded slowly from green to blue to black. The sky looked closer than it had before, no longer the endless void of space but a curving ceiling wrapped protectively around the room below. Aziraphale swayed as a wave of swimming vertigo ran through him. As soon as he did, there was an arm around his waist, a hand on his hip, a body long and lean and solid against his side.

Crowley watched the sky, his mouth hanging open in a careless, awestruck smile. And Aziraphale watched Crowley, his ears ringing with the crash and crackle of the display. He was so beautiful. He was so unutterably beautiful, and through the noise and the smoke and the fire, Aziraphale could hear the beat of his own heart, simple and sincere: _I love him_. _I love him_. _I_ …

He tore his eyes away, forcing himself to watch the rest of the fireworks. A single streak of gold split the sky, vanishing at the apex of its climb. The crowd held its breath. Crowley’s hand tightened on Aziraphale’s hip. With a rib-rattling bang, the rocket exploded, filling the sky with colour. On all sides, fountains of glitter poured upwards into the night. Aziraphale felt himself peel loose and fly with them, no sense of up or down, no gravity to guide him home.

‘I love him,’ he thought, and the thought ignited, exhilarating and sublime.

#

Everything was different. The lights shone more brightly, every smell was sharper, every sound more perfectly in tune. Aziraphale felt electrified, hardly able to contain the strength of feeling coursing through him. He channelled it into the party, needing some way to release the pressure building inside him.

He laughed and joked, made conversation, ate his fill of nibbles, drunk his wine. He even, at one point, found himself sitting on the living room floor with a post-it note stuck to his forehead, trying desperately to work out which famous figure Teddy could possibly be talking about when they described them as being ‘not really’ alive and that they ‘wouldn’t like to speculate’ on what gender they might be.[5] Throughout it all, Crowley dazzled at the periphery of Aziraphale’s vision, and a jolt of energy ran through him every time their eyes met.

Before long, Işıl and Lena declared that it was past Zehra’s bedtime and started to say their goodbyes. Aziraphale hugged them each in turn, meaning it when he said he was happy to have met them. Crowley offered Zehra a high five and was given a hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek instead, along with stern instructions to make an appearance at Aunt Chelsea’s next party.

Their leaving seemed to signal something to the rest of the party guests. A few took it as their cue to leave as well, while those that remained settled in for the more adult portion of the night. Crowley found his way to the sofa where Aziraphale was sat, slightly too upright to be entirely sober, and sprawled across the empty space beside him. His arm lay across the back of the sofa, an echo of the way it had wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist earlier in the evening.

“What do you say, angel?” Crowley asked. “You want to stick about, or shall we make tracks?”

Crowley’s edges were nicely blurred by the fairy lights, and the easy smile on his face said he’d found plenty of time between games to sample Chelsea’s mulled wine for himself. He looked lovely. Oh, _Someone_ , he looked lovely. Aziraphale smiled, unable to stop himself, not sure if he wanted to.

“Up to you,” he said. “Are you having a nice time?”

“Sure. But if you want to go…”

“Well, what do you want?”

“No, I’m asking you…” started Crowley, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“I’m asking _you_ ,” he said. Dimly he realised he might be more drunk than he thought he was.

“I asked you first,” said Crowley, on the edge of laughter.

“I know, and I’m asking you second. Y’see, you’re not the only one who knows numbers,” said Aziraphale, tapping the side of his nose.

At that, Crowley’s laughter caught up with him. He buried his face in his arm, shoulders shaking. Definitely not sober, Aziraphale noted smugly.

Crowley turned his head so he could look at Aziraphale without sitting up. “You get very silly when you’re drunk,” he said.

“According to you, I’m always silly. Bow ties and dandelion fluff and all that.”

“You heard that, did you?”

“Don’t come the innocent, it doesn’t suit you. You knew very well I could hear you - ‘a little cloud with a man stuck to its arse’, indeed.”

“I didn’t say ‘arse’! I wouldn’t say ‘arse’ to a four year old!”

The sentence struck them both as inordinately funny. When they finished laughing, Aziraphale knocked back the last of his mulled wine and said decisively, “Let’s stay. At least for a bit.”

He went to pat Crowley on the knee, and caught himself. He wouldn’t have thought twice about the action a week before, but now his hand stuck, frozen in mid air. He flapped it awkwardly before bringing it back to his own lap with a silly little shake. Crowley watched with a raised eyebrow.

“You alright there?” he said, smiling. “Doing a little Napoleon Dynamite hand-dancing?”

“I- It- I don’t-” he tried. He gave up with an amused sigh. “For pity’s sake, Chelsea,” he called across the room, waving his mug in her direction. “What do you put in this bloody stuff?”

Chelsea’s face lit up. “Do you like it? Got the recipe online, says its a Scandinavian version.” She started ticking ingredients off on her fingers. “It’s got cardamom pods, cinnamon sticks, cloves, orange zest, caster sugar, red wine, port, and vodka. Good, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Lovely,” he said cheerfully. He turned back to Crowley. “Vodka,” he said, in the same light tone. “Wine, port, and vodka.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Crowley thoughtfully. He ran his fingers absent-mindedly through his hair. “Not, um. Not your usual, in mulled wine.”

“No.”

“Does explain how rat-arsed you are, though.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Yes it does, rather.” His eyes slipped out of focus as he looked into the middle distance, frowning slightly. “I am…” he said slowly, “very nearly… completely arseholed.”

This time, Aziraphale joined Crowley when he collapsed into giggles.

Eventually, the party dwindled until only Aziraphale, Crowley, Teddy, Henry and Chelsea remained. They had reached the sitting-on-the-floor-having-meaningful-conversations stage, sitting in a ragged circle with Teddy propped up between Henry’s legs and Chelsea sprawled out over a pile of cushions. Aziraphale was leaning against Crowley, or perhaps it was the other way around. His jacket was somewhere in the maelstrom of throw blankets that had once been Chelsea’s sofa, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and he had loosened his bow tie in deference to the flush in his cheeks.[6] Everyone was sitting quietly, music playing unobtrusively in the background, as Teddy spoke.

“The problem is, if I try and say that my gender is like, like this,” they said, spreading their arms wide and wiggling them nebulously, “then people always think it’s like ‘boy’ here”—they flapped one hand—“and ‘girl’ here”—they flapped the other. “And they think that I’m saying I’m here in the wobbly bit. But it’s not. ‘Boy’ is, is not even… ’s not even in the conversation. Not even in the room. And ‘girl’ is like… Like…” They wiggled again, pulling a face. “You know?”

The others nodded, making thoughtful sounds. Aziraphale understood perfectly. He turned to Crowley, surprised to find Crowley’s face so close to his own. “Sounds like you,” he murmured.

Crowley pushed out his bottom lip, considering. “I think ‘boy’ isss pretty firmly in the room, in my case. I think pretty well everything’s in my room.”

“No, I know. I meant the, um. The wiggles.”

Crowley smiled, broad and happy. “I like the wiggles.”

To Aziraphale’s absolute lack of surprise, the smell of marijuana smoke wreathed its way through the room to them. The joint circled around, passed from Henry to Teddy to Crowley, and finally to Aziraphale. He took it between forefinger and thumb and took a delicate pull, holding his breath for a moment before exhaling slowly, taking another couple of drags before he passed it on to Chelsea.

Slowly, the world softened even more than it already had. He felt totally at peace, heavy and solid in his seat. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting, enjoying the flow of conversation around him. Movement pulled him out of his reverie - Crowley, shifting position beside him. He turned his head slowly and smiled when Crowley’s eyes met his own.

“Hello,” he said, too content to feel stupid.

“Hello,” Crowley replied. He was smiling too, dreamily stoned. The rest of the party faded into insignificance around them. “I haven’t ssseen you high since…”

“1924,” said Aziraphale. Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“You haven’t been high since 1924?” he said, surprised.

“No,” said Aziraphale, slyly. “You just haven’t _seen_ me high since then.”

Crowley’s smile spread. He dipped his head and bumped Aziraphale on the shoulder with his forehead, humming happily. Aziraphale laughed. He couldn't help it.

“Are you sure you're a snake?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Snakes,” Aziraphale repeated. “Are you quite sure they're the right animal for you?”

His hand rose to Crowley’s face, as if with a mind of its own. Aziraphale watched with mild interest as one of his fingers brushed gently over Crowley's tattoo, tracing its curls. Crowley's eyes caught his, and he let a teasing note come into his voice.

“Are you sure you aren't more of a house cat?”

Crowley blinked. “A house- I am not a cat! I'm a sssnake,” he said firmly. “See? Hissy. Slithery. Big evil slithery sssnake, that’s me.”

“Snakes aren't evil,” Aziraphale pointed out. “All the ones I’ve met have been quite darling. And cats are plenty slithery. Practically liquid, some of them.”

“See what I get for trying to be nice to you,” Crowley grumbled, though he made no move to pull away.

“I think a new tattoo would look very sweet,” said Aziraphale, letting his hand fall back into his lap. “You could get it on the other side, to match. A slinky black cat with a little red collar.”

“’m a snake,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale could hear the pout in it.

Aziraphale began ticking points off on his fingers. “Bendy. Drama queen. Always shouting about something or other. I've actually witnessed you knocking things off shelves just to see how they land. And you'd give any cat a run for its money when it comes to napping.”

Crowley fixed him with a look that pretended to be annoyed but shone with affection. Aziraphale waited for him to say something. But Crowley seemed to forget he was supposed to. His face softened, no trace of even pretended annoyance left. He stayed there for a long time, looking up at Aziraphale with such fondness that Aziraphale started to wonder vaguely if he might kiss him. As soon as he thought it, he bit down gently on his tongue - not hard, just enough to make sure he didn’t accidentally say the thought out loud. But he didn’t look away.

“Let’s go home,” said Crowley softly. Something jumped in Aziraphale’s chest.

“OK,” his voice barely a whisper.

Another moment. Then he dragged his eyes away, gearing up to start the process of standing. When he did so, he realised that the others were watching them, and likely had been throughout the conversation. He couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed - they all seemed slightly faded compared to Crowley’s vivid presence. Chelsea gave him a knowing smile, her piercings twinkling in the fairy lights.

“We’re going to head home,” he said, unable to keep his own smile from spreading.

“I’m sure you are,” said Teddy, making Henry hide his face in their neck to stifle his laughter.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at them, holding out his hands to help Crowley haul himself up to his feet. They hugged and kissed their goodbyes, and without Aziraphale quite noticing how they’d got there, they were outside Chelsea’s building, the smell of winter on the air. Crowley was looking at his phone, lit up like a beacon. The streets were quiet. What time was it? Aziraphale couldn’t have guessed. Finally, Crowley put his phone away and lifted his face.

“I ordered an Uber,” he said. “A taxi,” he added, when Aziraphale showed no sign of understanding. “Won’t be long.”

“Ah. OK.” A pause. It must have been Aziraphale’s imagination, but it seemed to him Crowley was still lit up somehow, as if bathed in his own spotlight. “Do you want my scarf?” he offered. He had intended it to sound casual, the offer of one friend to another. But Crowley was looking at him carefully, giving him that same slide-under-a-microscope feeling.

“Do you want me to wear it?” he said.

Aziraphale blinked. His throat was dry. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “Yes. I’d… I like that,” he confessed.

Crowley stepped closer, close enough that Aziraphale could see the pulse fluttering in his throat. Slowly, he pulled Aziraphale’s scarf out from around his neck, the wool sliding softly against his skin. Aziraphale watched as Crowley wrapped it around his own throat, tucking in the ends with care. To his surprise, Crowley dipped his head so that his nose was pressed into the soft folds of the fabric, and inhaled.

“Smells like you,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale still hadn’t thought of anything to say when the car arrived to bring them home.

Streetlights flashed and flared as they drove, the rumble of the engine and the fizzing chatter of the radio adding to the dreamy, timeless sensation. Crowley didn’t speak as they rode, looking out of the window with his chin ducked into the scarf. When Aziraphale took his hand, it felt as outrageous as it did inevitable. His eyes still watching the streets outside, Crowley started to move his fingers, tracing the shape of Aziraphale’s hand in careful, delicate motions. Every brush of his fingers took more and more air out of the back of the car, until Aziraphale thought he might drown.

He had sat once, a long, long time ago, watching a murmuration of starlings above the desert in what was not yet Iraq, black against the pink and blue and gold of the setting sky. Their twisting, falling, breathing movements had felt so familiar to him, but he hadn’t known why. He knew now. Dear God, he knew now.

When they reached the bookshop, Aziraphale was astonished to find he was still breathing. The drive had given him time to sober up a little, though the world still felt soft and distant and strange. The street was deserted, the sound of the Uber pulling away only adding to the sense of total stillness. Aziraphale had let go of Crowley’s hand to get out of the car and he felt the absence of it as he unlocked the front door, holding it open for Crowley to slip inside before him.

It was only habit that took them to the sofa behind the till. If this had been anyone else, a bit of something fun to pass the time, he’d have led them upstairs immediately. But for all the looks and all the touches, for all the unvoiced tension stretching taut between them, Aziraphale still wasn’t certain. He didn’t know what this looked like, not like this, not with Crowley. All his daydreams had been wasted - nothing had prepared him for this.

Crowley didn’t seem sure either. He sat down on the arm of the sofa, an awkward bag of angles, knee bouncing until he stilled it with a visible force of will. Aziraphale hovered in the doorway, wondering if he should say something.

“Nightcap?” said Crowley, his voice tight.

Aziraphale nodded, glad to have something to do. “Of course. There’s a bottle of Chivas Regal in the back?”

“Sure.” Crowley sounded as if he’d have agreed to drink turpentine if it was the only thing on offer. “Hang on,” he said, before Aziraphale could leave.

He pulled off Aziraphale’s scarf and held it out. Aziraphale’s fingers brushing against Crowley’s as he took it, and for a moment, he stood there, staring at the scarf held between them. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“The thing is, Crowley…” he began. He took a deep breath. “I don’t really want a drink,” he admitted.

“No,” Crowley said softly. “Me neither.”

Gently, Aziraphale laid the scarf down on the back of the chair by the desk. He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, unblinking. He concentrated on unbuttoning his coat, shrugging it off to lay it down on top of the scarf. He heard Crowley stand to do the same, less patient, the thump of his coat as he dropped it behind him onto the sofa. When Aziraphale turned back, his breath caught in his throat. All the lines of Crowley’s body were taut with anticipation, the graceful elegance of him transformed into something animal and alert. He took a careful step forwards, his hands twitching in an abortive motion.

“Can I… Can I take off your glasses?” he asked.

The smallest nod. Aziraphale reached up slowly, finding the metal of the glasses cold beneath his fingers. He lifted them away, folded them carefully and set them down on the closest shelf. Beneath, Crowley’s eyes were full yellow, the pupils so dilated they almost looked round. He was preternaturally still, hardly breathing. Aziraphale moved closer.

“Is this like before?” Crowley blurted. Aziraphale froze.

“Before?”

“When… Before, when we…” He licked his lips, tried again. “Just a bit of fun,” he said at last.

The words hung in the air between them. Aziraphale knew he needed to say something. With the careful control of someone well-versed in dissimulation, Aziraphale found the answer he knew Crowley wanted to hear.

“Of course,” he said, and smiled.

For the first time since taking off his glasses, Crowley blinked. “Right,” he said. His eyes flicked to Aziraphale’s mouth. He swallowed. “Good. Alright. Just, um. Just checking.”

Time had gone elastic and strange. It took so much longer than it should have for Aziraphale’s hand to find its way to Crowley’s waist. The edge of Crowley’s hip was hard beneath the impossible softness of his jumper. Aziraphale stepped closer. His head was swimming, he was falling upwards again, lost in the vertiginous climb of sparks and starlings. Crowley tilted his head, his lips parting like glaciers slipping loose. And in that moment, Aziraphale knew with the cold and sudden certainty of a dream that he could not kiss him. If he kissed him now, everything would come undone - he would be helpless to stop himself spilling every drop of heedless, heady love he’d held so long inside him, six thousands years of iron-willed control disintegrated like so much smoke. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bring himself to be laid open to Crowley’s judgement, exposed for the soft, ridiculous creature he was.

Before he could second guess himself, he reached up to Crowley’s chin and, gently but unequivocally, turned Crowley’s face away. He brought his mouth instead to the space beneath Crowley’s ear, his lips brushing soft across the skin. The smell was intoxicating, aftershave and smoke and Crowley’s own clean scent. In a move more bold than he would have thought possible, Aziraphale slipped his hand under the bottom edge of Crowley’s jumper, finding the soft cotton t-shirt that lay beneath. The heat of Crowley’s skin through the fabric sent waves of desire through Aziraphale. He kissed Crowley again, moving his mouth slowly down over the warmth of his neck. It was impossible, delicious, everything he had been longed for. Except…

Something wasn’t right. Aziraphale tried to push the thought away, tried to ignore the voice that told him something was wrong. But when he trailed his hand from Crowley’s jaw, down his shoulder, over the swell and flow of his arm and down to his hand, the illusion shattered.

Crowley had hardly moved. His hand was balled into a fist at his side, as still and tense as he had been when they first came inside. Aziraphale’s heart dropped. He let his hands fall still.

“Crowley,” he said quietly. “Do you want this?”

A sharp breath. A pause. And Crowley’s voice, sorry and small. “No.”

Well. That was that, then. Aziraphale moved back, giving Crowley space. Crowley’s head was still turned away, his eyes squeezed shut. His narrow shoulders were high and tight, hunched forwards as if anticipating some kind of blow. As soon as he saw it, Aziraphale softened.

“It’s alright,” he said, ignoring his disappointment. There would be time for that later. “It’s perfectly alright, my dear.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Crowley began.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” said Aziraphale firmly. “I’m glad you told me.”

Crowley folded his arms across his chest, miserable and ashamed. He looked like he might cry. Then, on a sudden thought, he started patting his pockets, looking around him. Aziraphale understood. He handed Crowley his sunglasses from the shelf he’d put them on. Crowley pushed them firmly back into place. It calmed him, if only slightly.

“It’s really alright,” Aziraphale said again. “These things happen. Chalk it up to experience - we’ll know not to bother next time!”

It wasn’t really a joke, and Crowley didn’t laugh. He was tangled in his own thoughts, trying to process what had just happened.

“It was,” he started, his face twisting at the thought. He sniffed, dragged his wrist across his nose and took a shivery breath. His hands made strange shapes in the air, searching for the words. “It was too… It was just too _weird_.”

Aziraphale fell still. He felt suddenly small and far away. “Too… weird?” he echoed.

Crowley made a noise, folding his arms again, looking everywhere but at Aziraphale. “I should go,” he said shortly, his voice thick with emotion. Aziraphale, in contrast, was still and cold.

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Yes, I think you should.”

Crowley scooped up his coat, pulling on while he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m… I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” said Aziraphale. He could feel the edges of himself trembling. He pasted on smile, automatic and hollow. “You really don’t have to keep apologising, Crowley, you’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll talk to you later. Goodbye, now.”

“Right. Sure.” Crowley sighed, looking as wretched as Aziraphale felt. “I’m…”

“Mind how you go,” said Aziraphale, stepping aside to let him past.

With one last, miserable look, Crowley left, the bell above the door ringing behind him.

For a long time, Aziraphale stood in the silent, empty bookshop, staring at nothing. He felt faintly sick. ‘Too weird,’ the words repeated in his head over and over again. ‘Too weird.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath - his first for a while - and scraped together enough energy to walk upstairs. He left the lights off, unwilling to be reminded of himself. Then he went into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and wondered at what point he had started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] He hadn’t managed the actual strut, however, and Crowley’s attempts to teach him had gone a long way to confirming Aziraphale’s suspicions that there was something not quite right about the internal organisation of Crowley’s corporation. Crowley could swear as much as he liked that his bones we exactly where they should be. Aziraphale remained sceptical.
> 
> [2] None of the societies and time periods Aziraphale lived through had ever, he felt, given proper consideration to the forearm. Body parts fell in and out of fashion, from foreheads to fingernails, but the humble forearm had never been praised as much as it deserved. The elegant sweep from elbow to wrist, the brush of dark hair across the top, the pale softness of the underside, the interplay of strength and vulnerability between the two… Oh, Aziraphale could write sonnets. Indeed, he’d attempted to once, after Crowley had answered the door in his shirtsleeves on a hot afternoon in the 1940s and nearly sent Aziraphale into a fainting fit. He’d got as far as rhyming ‘forearm’ with ‘gendarme’, and given up in disgust.
> 
> [3] London’s reputation as a single cohesive city is entirely a work of propaganda. It is at best a series of towns bound together by a web of red buses. If London was a conversation, it had branched into so many tangents that the original subject was forgotten entirely, leaving each participant enjoying the topic thoroughly but with no idea how they got there. It suited Aziraphale and Crowley down to the ground.
> 
> [4] A ridiculous debate - the correct answer is _When Harry Met Sally_.
> 
> [5] The answer turned out to be Brum, the eponymous hero of a beloved 1990s children’s television programme. Teddy’s ambiguity was admittedly justified, given that Brum was a) a car, and b) a car.
> 
> [6] He had not, however, seen the look on Crowley’s face when he did so. If he had, this story might have been a good bit shorter.


	11. A Fog of Noodles and Muslin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still reeling from Saturday night, Aziraphale finds comfort in the twin pleasures of take-away food and period dramas. But he can't mope forever - surely the dam has to break eventually?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sort of a short one this week, but hopefully enough to whet your appetites for the grand finale next week!
> 
> cw for comfort eating, but i don't thiiink there's anything else that needs mentioned? as always, please just say so if there's something here that you think ppl wld like a heads up about!
> 
> come and find me on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hello :D
> 
> now, with a final meaningful tap of the "eventual happy ending" tag, i'll leave you to it ;)

Somehow, the sun rose. Across London, bells rang for Sunday services, people woke wincing to the remains of the night before, unlucky weekend shifters slumped their way to work, babies cried, breakfasts fried, and life, impossibly, went on. Aziraphale was numb to it all.

He had cried himself to sleep. He hadn’t the energy to make it to the bedroom, but had managed to kick off his shoes and pull the blanket down from the back of the sofa to cover himself. He woke late with a crick in his neck and knees aching from a night tucked up beneath him. He drifted for a while, soft with sleep, wondering how he had got there. Then the memory of the night before came back to him in a dreadful wave.

It was like there were two Aziraphales - one slowly sinking under the churning waves of emotions he could scarcely recognise, let alone name, and another who sat on the shore, helpless to do anything but watch.

Aziraphale reached for a cup of tea and found one, too tired to make it the usual way. No, not tired. More than that. The part of him sitting on the shore sipped his tea and considered the feeling. He’d expended so much energy over the years controlling his emotions, keeping watch on his ridiculous heart, keeping Crowley safely in reach without ever letting him drift too close - in short, keeping himself as safe as he possibly could under the circumstances. He felt every second of that exertion now. He was exhausted, and it was an exhaustion that went deep, deep into the heart of him.

Time passed. He clicked his fingers, changing his clothes into pyjamas. He couldn’t face getting undressed, didn’t want to confront his body, no matter how briefly - ridiculous, wanting thing. He wanted to do something, distract himself somehow, but he hadn’t even energy enough to read. He ended up staring at the television as it played, though he couldn’t have said what was on.

A noise broke through the fog. Something buzzing. With a sinking heart, Aziraphale realised it was his mobile phone, lost somewhere in the cushions of the sofa. He dug around for it, intending to switch it off and be done with the damnable thing. But one he had it in his hands, he couldn’t help looking to see what the notification was.

It was a text from Teddy. Aziraphale didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed.

‘morning, sunshine! hows the head?’

Aziraphale tried to smile. Even in his untethered state, he knew well enough that it was no longer morning by any stretch of the imagination. ‘I’m fine,’ he wrote back. ‘How are you?’

‘oh god we’re absolutly DYING lol we ended up staying up WAY too late after yous left but its alrite henrys making me breakfast - the perks of putting out!! speaking of whiiiich… did you and anthony get home ok??’

They ended the text with a row of winky faces, as if Aziraphale would be in any doubt as to the tone of voice they was asking in. He sighed.

‘We got home safely, thank you.’ Hopefully they would leave it at that.

They did not. ‘ohhhh come on!! spill the beans haha we all saw the way yous were looking at each other last night. anthony looked like a man whod just crawled out of the desert and into an all u can eat buffet!!’

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. He should never have replied.

He was quiet for long enough that Teddy texted again. ‘aziraphale?? are you OK?? you dont have to tell me if you dont want to im only being nosy xxxxx’

At that, Aziraphale softened. They meant well, he knew. He opened his keyboard, thumbs hovering as he thought of what to say. ‘I’m alright,’ he wrote eventually. ‘We got a taxi back to mine and then Anthony went home from there. Nothing to write home about.’

Teddy, ever the empath, picked up on the undertone. They switched seamlessly to some frothy nonsense about Henry and how handsome he looked over a home-cooked vegan breakfast - the perfect distraction, even if the thought of tofu scramble made Aziraphale’s nose wrinkle.

By the time the conversation wound down, he was feeling slightly more grounded. He wished Teddy luck with the rest of their hangover, and turned back to the television. As he did, his phone buzzed once again. He opened it, expecting a last message from Teddy.

‘hey angel, i just wanted to see if youre ok’

‘do you want to get dinner or something?’

Aziraphale felt a rush of anger. For a split second, he wanted to throw his phone at the wall and scream. He started typing out an answer, the tap of the keys so quick it was almost a hum. But… no. He sighed, deleting the message, anger fading. However he might be feeling, he didn’t need to lash out. Besides, he didn’t want to risk Crowley misunderstanding and thinking he’d upset Aziraphale by changing his mind last night - he deserved the dignity of knowing he could change his mind about that sort of thing without it being held against him.

After a careful pause, he sent his reply. ‘No, thank you. I’m very tired. Have a good evening.’

Crowley’s ellipses flashed up and away. This must have been what it looked like when he was answering, Aziraphale realised. He knew Crowley would know he was lying - tiredness was a weak excuse from someone who had literally gone 6,000 years only sleeping on special occasions. He just hoped he’d have enough tact not to press the issue. Mercifully, it seemed he did.

‘right,’ he replied after a long pause. ‘ok. let me know if you want to hang out or something’

Aziraphale didn’t bother to answer. He switched the phone off and set it down well out of reach. Then he clicked into Netflix and found _North & South_ listed under his recommendations. If the sight of Richard Armitage stalking moodily through a cotton mill couldn’t cheer him up a bit, he didn’t know what could.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. First he watched _North & South_ in its entirety. Then he ordered an improbable amount of Vietnamese food and worked his way through Emma Thompson’s _Sense & Sensibility_, Keira Knightley’s _Pride and Prejudice_ , and an excellent four-part adaptation of _Emma_ he hadn’t seen before. He was just considering _Poldark_ when he realised with a start that morning had come again without his realising. He checked his watch, appalled to discover he’d spent more than twelve hours in a fog of noodles and muslin.

That was quite enough of that. He cleared up the detritus of his evening and opened the living room window. Fresh air streamed in, banishing the lingering scent of self-pity. It was a perfect winter’s morning, bright and cold, and Aziraphale breathed deeply. In the street below, people went about their early morning business before rush hour began in earnest.

He still felt fragile. Crowley’s words on Saturday night had hurt him deeply, and he had no idea how he was going to go about healing that hurt. But the pain had settled, digging in its roots in a way that felt at once entirely horrible, and a significant improvement on the urgent, panicked feeling he’d had most of Sunday. He no longer felt like he might burst into tears at a strong gust of wind, and for that, at least, he was grateful.

He spent the day in the shop, though he didn’t open. It was comforting to move about the shelves, making arbitrary changes to how the books were organised.[1] He’d left his phone in the flat. It had been too long since he left it behind somewhere, and it was a relief to redraw the boundary around himself. If anyone needed him, they could ring the landline, and he could ignore it, just like old times.

At one point, he was bustling around behind the till when he found his scarf, fallen down the side of the chair. He stared at it for a long time before picking it up. When he did, the movement sent up the barest waft of scent. He didn’t bother resisting. He had long abandoned any pretence of dignity. He pressed the scarf to his face, breathing in the smoke-and-aftershave scent, and when he eventually put the scarf back in its place, it bore the telltale marks of his tears.

That evening, he made[2] himself a simple dinner of pork tenderloin stuffed with spinach and artichoke hearts, served with roasted garlic-parmesan potatoes, a fig and rocket salad, and a glass of Pinot Noir. He listened to Radio 4 as he ate, and almost enjoyed it. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the dark glass of the window, and was reminded of himself, and lost his appetite.

There was nothing else for it. He went to bed.

After almost 220 years of occupation, his bedroom had developed something of a sense for his moods. That night it was putting in a special effort. The lights were soft and golden, his bed invitingly rumpled, the smell of books and clean linen mixing with the fragrant woodiness of the shelves and floorboards. It was the perfect sanctuary. Aziraphale felt none of it. He looked around at the hoarded books, the indulgent blankets, the existence of a bed for a creature who didn’t even need to sleep, and felt foolish and greedy and _soft_. Tears pricked at his eyes, only adding to the feeling. He climbed under the covers and willed himself to sleep before they could fall in earnest.

#

On Tuesday, he opened the shop. Not that he got many customers. It was pouring with rain, the driving, horizontal kind that cowed all but the most determined shoppers. Fat drops slammed themselves against the windows, and Aziraphale caught himself drifting off to the scattered rhythm, losing interest halfway through a task and staring out of the window, unseeing, for long stretches of time.

Shortly before four, when what little sun had made its way through the clouds was starting to fade, the bell above the door jingled, making Aziraphale jump. He threaded his way out of the stacks to find Chelsea dripping on the doormat. She grinned when he appeared, but there was something uncertain in the smile that made Aziraphale cautious.

“Hello,” he said tentatively, setting down the pile of books he was holding.

“Hi! Are you alright?” The question was too blunt to be a simple courtesy.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh. No reason.” There was a pause. “Wet, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale folded his arms and fixed her with a stern look. “Chelsea. What did you come over for?”

“Must I be over for anything? Can I not drop in and check on an old friend?”

“You certainly can, and on the day you do, I shall welcome you with open arms. Today, however, you’ve clearly come with something in mind, so - what is it?”

Chelsea sniffed, wiping rain off her nose and shrugging. “Yeah, alright, fair cop,” she said. “Anthony text me.”

“I see.”

She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she continued. “He said yous haven’t spoken since Sunday. That you’ve been ignoring his texts.”

“I’ve had my phone switched off,” said Aziraphale tightly. “I haven’t replied to you or Teddy either, if you’ve sent me anything.”

“No, I know, that’s what I told him. But he said that you… I mean, he didn’t give me any details or anything, and I didn’t ask - I’m not Teddy, like.” She laughed, cut it off when she saw the look on Aziraphale’s face. “He just said yous had something like a row, that’s all. And he asked me to see if you were OK.”

“Well. You’ve seen me.”

“I have.”

She put her hands in her pockets and waited. She gave the distinct impression that she would wait there for as long as it took for him to give her a proper answer. Aziraphale gave in. He unfolded his arms with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his eyes with forefinger and thumb.

“I’m fine,” he said softly. “I am, really. I just… need a bit of time.”

Chelsea nodded. “OK. That makes sense. But you know where we are if you need us, right?”

“Of course, my dear. Thank you for checking in on me. Please, tell Anthony I’m alright and that I’ll talk to him… well. When I talk to him.”

“Will do,” she said, and turned to go. Aziraphale picked up the books he’d been shelving and went to get on with things when Chelsea made a startled noise. “On second thoughts,” she said quickly, “you can tell him yourself.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped round. “Excuse me?”

Chelsea was backing away from the door. She pulled a helpless face at Aziraphale. “I suppose he got impatient?” she hazarded, just as Crowley pulled open the door and stepped into the bookshop in a flurry of rain.

He looked, Aziraphale was gratified to notice, completely awful. The rain had drenched him in the short walk from the Bentley to the shop, sticking his hair to his head and dripping off his nose and ears. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and the look on his face when he saw Aziraphale was one of frantic concern. Aziraphale almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Anthony,” said Chelsea, stepping forwards. Crowley jumped, whipping around to look at her. “Hi! Sorry. Wasn’t sure if you’d seen me. I was, uh, just about to text you. Let you know he’s alright.”

Crowley blinked at her. She gave a little wave. He frowned, then seemed to become aware of what he must look like, and folded his arms, dropping his gaze. “Right,” he said. “Right, yeah. Sorry. Thanks. For coming, I mean. I…”

He trailed off, the steam gone out of him. Clearly he hadn’t expected to find Chelsea here. Knowing him, he’d likely had visions of a satisfyingly dramatic entrance followed by an even more satisfyingly explosive encounter. Instead, here he was, dripping on the doormat like something the cat dragged in. He glanced around the bookshop, chewing his lip. Finally, he looked at Aziraphale, though he looked away again as soon as their eyes met.

“I think we need to talk,” he said.

There was a pause. Chelsea shifted uncomfortably where she stood. “Aziraphale,” she said cautiously. “I know you didn’t want to see him. Would you like me to stay?”

It was a kind offer, and Aziraphale knew she would if he asked. “No, thank you, dear,” he said gently. “Anthony’s right - we need to talk.”

Chelsea nodded. “Righto,” she said. She looked at Crowley, and flashed him an apologetic smile. “Give me a shout if you need anything,” she said, though it wasn’t clear which of them she meant. Probably both. She let herself out and dashed back to Intimate Books with her jacket pulled up over her head.

The air fell still in the wake of her leaving. Neither Aziraphale or Crowley broke the silence. Even across the shop floor, Aziraphale could hear the occasional drip of water falling from the hem of Crowley’s coat.

Crowley shoved his hands into his coat pockets, hunching in on himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking at the floor.

“For what?” Aziraphale’s voice was icy. The faster they got this through this, the better. He wanted Crowley gone as quickly as possible.

“For… For not… wanting…” Crowley began, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“For pity’s sake, Crowley, I’m not upset at you for not wanting to fuck me.” Crowley flinched at the obscenity, and Aziraphale laughed bitterly. “I’m sorry, was that insensitive? Which euphemism would you prefer - the beast with two backs? Knowing each other? Making love?”

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley’s face twisted, horrified. The sight caught Aziraphale short, making his chest pang with regret. He bit back the venom that had been rising in him. But without the anger there was only pain, and that was so much worse. At least he could _do_ something about being angry. He took a breath, consciously relaxed his hands where they had clenched into fists.

“I’m not upset about that,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I hope you’d think a little better of me. I’m not some egomaniac who thinks he’s entitled to every pretty face that comes his way. Besides, I can hardly blame you - you could have your pick of partners, and I’m… Well. I know what I am.”

Crowley was staring at him, a look of total confusion on his face. “I- I don’t-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale pressed on, determined to get this over and done with. “It’s done now, and we both know where we stand, and I would like a bit of time to, to be alone and recalibrate or however you want to think of it, and frankly I think you should have the grace to respect that.”

There was a long pause. Crowley’s mouth opened and closed a few times. At any other time, Aziraphale might have found the dopey look on his face endearing.

“Then what?” he said, eventually.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to be confused. “How do you mean?”

“After you’re done… recalibrating. What do we do then?”

“Do? We don’t do anything. We write it off as a bad job and move on.”

Crowley made one of those back of the throat, broken-printer, thinking noises he resorted to when words and feelings wouldn’t jam together in the way he wanted. “You… You can’t just pretend-”

“Pretend?” Aziraphale’s anger flared, cold and sudden. “What do you know about pretending? Who are you to tell me not to pretend?”

Crowley took a step towards him - of course he did, of course he wouldn’t back away like a sensible person. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Aziraphale said, too loud. He cut himself off, folded his arms. The pressure inside him was too much, he could feel it shaking to be released. “I’m always pretending,” he spat. “Always bloody pretending.” He took a few shaky breaths, blinking rapidly against sudden tears. “It’s alright for you. You are what you are, and if someone doesn’t like it, to hell with them. It’s different for me. It’s always been different.”

At that, the mood in the shop shifted subtly. The very air seemed braced for honesty. Crowley ran a hand through his hair, soaking his hand with rain. He wiped it dry on his t-shirt. He wasn’t dressed in his usual finery - beneath his coat was the same soft t-shirt he’d worn the day after their trip to the National, the same slightly ratty jogging bottoms. He must have been horribly uncomfortable, but he made no move to take off his wet coat, and Aziraphale made no offer to take it. He took a breath as if to speak, then let it out again.

“Tell me,” he said, in a quiet voice.

Every part of Aziraphale recoiled at the idea. He had said too much already - better to bluff and fluster until Crowley left him to lick his wounds in peace.

But Crowley was looking at him with those open, honest eyes, eyes so revealing that he kept them hidden from the world, and Aziraphale knew he had to find the courage to explain himself somehow. He took a deep, shuddering breath. No need to bring every humiliating detail into the light, he decided. He would share what he needed to to get through this conversation, and leave it at that. He licked his lips, smoothed the front of his waistcoat, and began.

“Humans always get the wrong idea,” he said. He kept his eyes on the books on the table in front of him as he spoke, as if he could pretend to be thinking aloud to himself. “Even the most well-meaning ones. They find out what I am, and every time, things between us disintegrate. They feel let down. They start asking why I let this or that awful thing happen to them, or why I won’t cure their mother’s cancer or grant them wishes. I imagine their reaction is a little different to you.”

Crowley leant against a bookshelf and sighed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Bit different. Still not much fun though.”

Aziraphale conceded the point. “No, I imagine not. In any case, no matter how much I might like them, or how fond I am of them, or how much I come to… to love them,” he said, pressing on through the lump in his throat, “I can’t ever be myself. There’s always something I have to hold back, because if they knew, I would only disappoint them. And heaven…”

He broke off, tears springing to his eyes once more. His throat felt hot and tight at the thought. He blinked at the ceiling, breathing steadily until he had himself back under control.

“The thing is, Crowley, nobody in heaven ever liked me.”

He’d always known. How could he not? But it hurt horribly to admit it, to say it out loud to another person and have the truth of it sitting there, undeniable, before him.

“I know you got under people’s skin in hell,” he went on, “and you certainly made your share of enemies, but-”

“It’s not the same,” said Crowley quickly. “They’re the bad guys, you don’t really want them to like you.”

“Well. Quite. Besides, I always got the sense that people generally disliked you because of something you’d actually done - no offence. They had a reason, I mean. Nobody in heaven ever had a reason. It wasn’t anything I did. It was just who I was. Am.”

A rogue tear fell, splashing onto the cover of one of the books in front of him. He wiped his hand across his face, and said briskly, “That’s not the point. The point is, they made it very clear that everything I enjoyed or took pleasure in - even the fact that I was interested in pleasure at all - was ridiculous. Further evidence of my being a soft, indulgent little fool. Food, wine, clothes, company - it was all… silly. And so was I. In fact, most of the time it felt like the things I wanted were only silly because I was the one wanting them, if you see what I mean. As if this”—here he gestured to himself in a vague, all encompassing way—“somehow contaminated everything it came into contact with.”

Crowley took a step towards him. “Angel…” he started, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“I’m not finished,” he said tersely.

For a split second, it seemed Crowley might try to argue. But then he nodded. “OK. Sorry.”

Aziraphale took a moment to compose himself. This next part was the difficult bit. He closed his eyes, concentrating on making the words come out clearly.

“You are the only person in the world who’s ever let me be myself.” He let the words hang there a moment, eyes shut, concentrating on the pressure of his fingertips on the table before him, the sound of the rain outside, anything but what Crowley’s reaction might be. “More than let me,” he went on. “Liked me for it. Just as I was. You might tease me sometimes or poke fun, but you never made me feel like it was _me_ you were making fun of. I was never the butt of the joke, not myself, not really.

“And you never laughed at the idea of me wanting… Well. Wanting. With you, it didn’t matter whether I was hungry, or tired, or lonely. I didn’t have to justify myself. I could just… want. A slice of cake, a glass of wine, somewhere comfortable to sit, someone to sit with me. I could take pleasure in things. No excuses, no conditions. Something could just be nice and I could enjoy it and that would be the end of it. And I suppose…” His voice was thick with emotion, he could hardly speak through the painful tightness in his throat. “I suppose, I didn’t realise that there were limits to that.”

He couldn’t look at Crowley, couldn’t bear to see the look in his eyes as he spoke. Tears fell over his cheeks, as much as he tried to blink them away. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his face, determined to get to the end of this.

“Saturday was… Oh, it wasn’t just Saturday,” he said, wretchedly. “In 6,000 years, you never once thought that I might… That I might want to… That anyone would want…”

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely, ashamed and miserable. He took a few breaths and tried to continue in a steady voice.

“I know I’m not handsome,” he said simply. “When I thought you were saying ‘no’ on Saturday out of disinterest, so be it. A bruise to the ego but nothing mortal. But then…”

He fell quiet. The rain swelled and crackled against the glass. The sun had almost set since he’d started speaking, leaving the bookshop dimly lit in shades of blue and grey. Aziraphale stared out of the window, hearing Crowley’s voice in his memory.

“Weird,” he echoed. “Too weird.”

His voice was hollow, and the words sounded flat and muffled in the absolute stillness inside the shop. For a long moment, he stood motionless, hardly breathing. When he did speak, his voice was tightly controlled.

“I’ve never disgusted you before. You’ve never looked at something that I wanted and thought that it was… wrong. That I was wrong for wanting it. I hadn’t realised there was a point at which that would no longer be the case. I was mistaken.

“The fact is, Crowley, there are things that I want, that this body wants, that are, for you, beyond the pale. There is a line in the sand, and you are on one side of it and I am on the other.” His voice broke with the emotion, he struggled to speak around his tears. “From anyone else-” he tried, but was cut off with a sudden sob. It was too much. He threw up his hands. “I’m embarrassed, Crowley! It’s as simple as that. I’m embarrassed, and I feel foolish and grubby and greedy and- And I would just rather not _see_ you right now. So please, just go. Please. I can’t… I can’t bear it…”

Crowley was staring at him, his face an unreadable confusion. He looked appalled. Aziraphale couldn’t look at him any longer, he turned away and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sobs. There was an awful, drawn-out silence, and Aziraphale had the dreadful idea that Crowley was going to try to say something, comfort him, talk him out of it. But then he heard the creak of footsteps, the jingle of the bell, a gust of wind, and the final, irrefutable slam of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] This was an important part of maintaining the bookshop, and one well-loved by other booksellers of Aziraphale’s ilk. It wouldn’t do to have a bookshop that was in any way navigable by actual human customers, after all.
> 
> [2] Miracled.


	12. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions! Emotions! Overpriced baked goods! Roll up, roll up, gaydies and gentlethems, it's time for the happy ending we've all been waiting for!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO EXCITED i am VIBRATING IN MY SEAT with the sheer DELIGHT of FINALLY SHARING THIS WITH YOU ALL!!
> 
> idek where to start, this whole process has been incredible - ive had so much fun and cherished all the wonderful comments and flailing and rocks thrown at my head. and we're finally here - the happy ending that will (hopefully!) make all that yearning worthwhile haha
> 
> ive never been happier to tell you that the cws for this chapter are: first time sex, blow jobs, rimming, fingering, anal sex, supernatural refractory periods, 6000 years of pent up sexual tension finally being released, and one (1) unfortunate doughnut metaphor. there's also a very small moment of someone having their hand on another's throat - no pressure or breathplay, but just giving you a heads up for those who want it.
> 
> as always, just let me know if there's anything you think needs warned for either here or in the main work tags.
> 
> and of course, im on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if you want to come and say hello!
> 
> EXCITING!!

Aziraphale didn’t weep as long as he might have expected. Perhaps he really had wrung himself dry on Saturday, and there were simply no more tears left in him. He certainly felt empty. He dragged himself upstairs to the flat and slumped onto the sofa, staring at the wall.

He would go away, he decided. Tomorrow. Pack his things and head off somewhere - it didn’t matter where. He undid his bow tie, loosened his collar, and popped open the buttons on his waistcoat. Somewhere he could rest, he thought dimly. Somewhere with a beach - the kind where people walked their dogs, not the kind that attracted tourists. Pebbles. Drizzle. He’d go to the beach in the rain, and drink sweet coffee from a flask, and look at the ocean, and have a good old-fashioned wallow.

He was so caught up in the idea, he almost didn’t hear the sounds coming from downstairs. A bang, muffled and difficult to place. Aziraphale sat upright, listening hard. Could have been the wind? But there - a creak, a definite creak. Someone was in the shop. But he’d locked the door, he was sure he’d locked the-

Realisation hit and on its heels, a wash of white rage. He stormed to the door of the flat and threw it open just in time to see Crowley starting up the stairs towards him.

“No!” Aziraphale said firmly. “No, absolutely not, you can’t seriously-”

“I’m not here for a fight-”

“-told you to leave, you can’t just burst in here-”

“-need to talk to you-”

“-don’t know what you think you’re playing at-”

Crowley pushed past him into the living room with Aziraphale shouting at his retreating back.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale let the flat door slam shut as he followed Crowley into the living room. “I told you I wanted to be alone and you ought to respect that, you can’t just barge your way in here-”

“I need to talk to you,” Crowley insisted.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Well, tough! You got to have your little speech and now it’s my turn.”

“Little- _Little speech_?” Aziraphale was apoplectic. “Is that what you think that was? Some flouncy, jumped up power trip?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Crowley groaned. He twisted away from Aziraphale, hand in his hair, and kicked the floor in a fit of pique.

“Don’t kick my things!”

“I didn’t kick your things, I kicked _near_ your things! Will you please, just sit-”

“I will not be ordered about in my own-”

“I’m in love with you, you monumental prick!”

Aziraphale blinked. “Excuse me?”

Crowley let out a growl of frustration, his fist tight on the back of his head. “Fuck. _Fuck_. I didn’t mean- Look, just, sit down, alright?”

Aziraphale sat. Crowley paced up and down, barely containing his anger. He had something under his arm, a small, rose-coloured box with gold writing on the lid. After a few minutes of pacing, he tossed the box down on the coffee table and stood staring at it, hands on his hips, lost in thought. Aziraphale waited. Every so often, it looked like Crowley was about to speak. But then his face twisted, abandoning the words, and the silence continued.

If anything, Crowley looked even worse than he had before. Wherever he’d gone, he clearly hadn’t taken the car. He was soaked to the skin, his fashionable coat no match for the driving November downpour. His t-shirt was plastered to his chest, the fronts of his thighs sodden. He wasn’t wearing any socks, Aziraphale realised. His ankles poked bare and vulnerable out of a pair of trainers, as if he’d thrown on the nearest thing and rushed out of the door. The trainers were soaked through, leaving puddles on the carpet where Crowley stood. His feet must have been freezing.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he said at long last. He was still staring at the box, his hair sticking up at all angles. He looked tired. “It wasn’t meant to… I didn’t…”

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, he avoided Aziraphale’s steady, astonished gaze and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling instead. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it out in a steady stream.

“I’m in love with you.”

Aziraphale could scarcely breathe. He opened his mouth to say something but Crowley held up his hand, shaking his head.

“Don’t. Don’t, I’m not- I’m not done. The thing is… Oh, fuck. OK. So. The thing is, I’ve been in love with you for… Well. Forever, really. Or near as damn it, anyway. And before the summer, you know, it was sort of a moot point. Whether or not you…” He trailed off, his hands twisting together as he thought. Then he pulled a face. “But whatever, not the point. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t. It was too dangerous, and I wouldn’t have wanted to put you in that position anyway, so whatever, fine, I’ll just keep it to myself.

“And the thing is, it was fine. It was. Being friends with you is brilliant.” Crowley’s face softened into a smile. “It’s so good. I love it, all of it. Everything. So it was fine, as long as we could still be friends anything else was just…”

He waved the end of the sentence away. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale understood perfectly.

“After the summer, I did wonder,” Crowley confessed. “I thought that maybe you’d want to, to change things. Between us, I mean. I know we never said anything but sometimes I’d see you looking at me and it felt like… Like it could…” He shook his head, forcing himself to stay on track. “But, OK. Didn’t happen. No problem. I wasn’t going to push it. If it wasn’t what you wanted then, cool, fine. It was still good. Better, even - we could be friends like we couldn’t before, out in the open like that. We talked more. Hung out more.”

“It’s been lovely,” Aziraphale offered.

Tears sprung to Crowley’s eyes. He stared at the wall behind Aziraphale’s head, blinking rapidly and nodding. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He sniffed, rubbing his wrist against his nose, and soldiered on. “So, you didn’t want to change things. I figured maybe you just weren’t interested in, you know. That kind of stuff. Sex. You never mentioned it. And then you did mention it, and yeah, OK, I was a bit surprised. I’m sorry if that didn’t come over well. It was just a lot to take in, you know?

“But then I figured, alright then, so you like sex, but you just don’t fancy people like me. Don’t blame you. Be like rubbing up on a bag of broom-handles. And after Hallowe’en, we were hugging and things - I loved that. I _loved_ that. I told you, I love being your friend, so much. So I put all that other stuff, all those feelings and things, I put them all away and it was fine. But then…”

He closed his eyes, lips pressed into a thin, white line. He seemed barely to be breathing. A flash caught Aziraphale’s eye - tears, rolling down the side of Crowley’s nose and catching the light as they fell. One, two, then Crowley scrubbed his face with his hands and sighed.

“I was so stupid,” he said in a tired voice. “That whole fucking Grindr thing. I only went on there because- I mean, I’ve never even- I just talk to people sometimes.” He rolled his head back and let out a bitter, unhappy laugh. “I only messaged him because he looked like you! How pathetic is that? Telling him all these things I wanted… I wished…

“Because it turns out, turns out actually, you’re more than capable of fancying people who look like me. Quite happy to get along with someone like me, knobbly legs and too many elbows and everything else. You just…” A sob caught in Crowley’s throat. He swallowed it back. “You… You just don’t want _me_.”

Aziraphale mouth went dry. He needed to say something. His heart was tearing in two, he needed to speak - but when he tried, no sound came out. Crowley didn’t notice, he was hunched over, arms wrapped tight across his chest as if to hold himself together.

“And then it all got confusing. We, you know. Talked. And you said it was fun, just a bit of fun, and I thought that might be alright. It seemed like that might be alright. Everything with you is fun, maybe this could be just another fun thing that we could do and maybe it isn’t exactly what I was expecting but then I thought, maybe it could be the beginning of something? And then I got all mixed up, because the day after you didn’t seem like you’d had fun. You were all… All scrunchy and sad and quiet. And that night you didn’t want to, to chat. Like you’d changed your mind. Like, now you’d had time to think about it… So, fine. We’d just be mates again. Fine. But then on Saturday…”

He ran his hand through his hair and stopped, covering his eyes. Aziraphale waited, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Crowley’s shoulders sagged, deflating in on himself, and when he spoke his voice was tight.

“Aziraphale, I love watching you eat.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows twitched at the sudden change of subject, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I love it,” Crowley repeated. “I love how happy it makes you. I’ve watched you eat an entire five course meal with your eyes shut, just so you could concentrate on the taste and the texture of it all. It’s not just food, either. You throw yourself into everything, I love that. I love seeing you get worked up about some stuffy adaptation you’ve already watched a million times. Watching you move around a room like a sundial so you can keep sitting in the warm patch while you read. You even indulge in your hangovers, for fuck’s sake. I mean, when we went to the theatre the other day, we’re there in the middle of this whole mess and you still manage to shut your eyes and enjoy the smell of the candles, watch the people coming in, look at the art on the ceiling…”

Crowley was crying in earnest now, soft, breathy sobs that broke Aziraphale’s heart. He looked wretched, wet and miserable, the unhappiness coming off him in waves.

“I always-” he started, his voice cracking. “It’s stupid. It’s so fucking, fucking ssstupid. I always thought that if we… If we ever… I thought it would be like that. I thought you could… delight in me like that. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was like I was just there. I was just convenient. You wouldn’t even _kiss_ me.”

“Crowley…”

Crowley jerked backwards. “Don’t,” he begged. “Don’t, pleassse, I’m not finished. I just need to say it. I just need to sssay, and then I’ll go. Because that was what I meant, when I said that. When I said it was weird. I should have picked a better word, I’m sssorry, I’m not good with words like you are - I can’t sssay what I mean, it all just blurts out and gets confused. But when you said that downstairs earlier, I knew, I couldn’t let you go on feeling like that, because you’re beautiful, Aziraphale, you’re ssso beautiful and I couldn’t stand it-”

He broke off, overwhelmed. Before Aziraphale could stop him, he was lurching towards the door, stammering something about how sorry he was and how he had to go. Aziraphale leapt to his feet.

“Wait, Crowley!”

“Pleassse don’t, I have to go, I have to-”

“Wait, just a moment, please. _Please_.”

Crowley stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His head hung down between his shoulders. “I really, really don’t want to.”

“Oh, my dear boy. Please. I…” Aziraphale didn’t know where to begin. “I should have kissed you. I should have kissed you such a long time ago. If I’d known what was good for me, I’d have kissed you in the Garden and never stopped.”

Crowley’s head raised a little. He sniffed. Aziraphale hazarded a small step towards him.

“Please stay. Please, you need to take that coat off, you’ll be half dead of cold-”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s wet, the shoes too-”

“No.” Crowley half turned, eyes fixed on the ground. “What do you mean, you should have kissed me?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I mean, I love you too. Very much. So much, I… I can hardly stand it. And I fear I’ve been quite unforgivably foolish. So please, darling, please sit down.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley had heard him. Then he shuffled round, looking more confused than ever. Aziraphale gestured to the sofa encouragingly, but Crowley pulled a face.

“My coat’s wet,” he said in a small voice.

Aziraphale smiled, stepping forwards. “I’ll take it. It’s alright.”

Dumbly, Crowley shrugged the sodden coat off and handed it over. When Aziraphale came back from hanging it in the hall, he found Crowley sitting on the sofa, bare feet on the carpet, shoes abandoned in a puddle of their own making. Aziraphale clicked his fingers, drying the shoes, clothes, and Crowley in one go. Crowley sneezed.

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, sitting down beside him. “Overdid it a bit. Better than wet feet though.”

“You…” Crowley began.

“I love you.” The words came easily. Aziraphale reached out and took one unresisting hand between both of his. He went on, honesty anchoring him, keeping his voice steady and certain. “I love you, completely. Everything that you are. You are my safe harbour, and the wind behind me, and the star I steer home by. You are at the very centre of my heart and frankly, I don’t know who I would be if I didn’t love you.”

Crowley said nothing. He looked straight ahead, frowning slightly. He blinked, once.

“Oh.”

After a long, long pause, his frown deepened.

“Then… why?”

Aziraphale understood. He brought a hand to stroke gently through Crowley’s hair, fluffy from its impromptu angelic blow-dry. “I told you, I’ve been a fool. I didn’t realise you felt the same. You’ve loved me so well, my darling. I promise you, I’ve felt wonderfully loved by you. But to imagine that you might want something else, something different - it seemed impossible, like winning the lottery twice, and getting struck by lightning to boot. And besides, I really thought you’d tell me.” Crowley pulled an incredulous face. “I know,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I know. You’ve always been so patient with me, always given me time, even when I was being unforgivably slow. I suppose…” He trailed off, smiling shyly. “I suppose I rather hoped you’d sweep me off my feet,” he confessed.

Crowley leant, ever so slightly, into Aziraphale’s touch. “Not sure I’m the sweeping sort.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You can be very dashing sometimes.”

“I don’t feel very dashing,” Crowley sniffed.

“Well, not right now, no. But give it a bit. You’ll be back on form in no time.”

Crowley did not seem convinced. They sat for a while, Aziraphale’s fingers moving mindlessly through Crowley’s hair, his other hand now gripped firmly in Crowley’s. When Crowley spoke again, he was still staring at the invisible spot in front of him.

“How long?” he asked.

Aziraphale knew what he meant. “Hard to say. A little after the Ark, I think.”

“The Ark,” Crowley echoed. Tears filled his eyes. He tried to blink them away, swallowing hard. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened. “The… The bloody _Ark_?”

And with that, he disintegrated. Aziraphale pulled him close, wrapping his arms around shaking, skinny shoulders.

“Oh, my darling,” he murmured, holding Crowley close. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s OK. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Crowley cried for a long, long time, in desperate, hacking sobs that made Aziraphale’s throat twinge in sympathy. Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley had ever cried like that before. Certainly not in front of him. He ended up bundled into Aziraphale’s lap, face pressed into his chest, hands balled up in the back of his shirt. Aziraphale just held him, one hand stroking circles on Crowley’s back. Crowley was heavy and real in his arms, and Aziraphale felt a sudden rush of gratitude for his own corporation - how beautiful it was, to have a chest broad enough to be lain against, arms long enough to wrap around another, to be the place a person came to when they were tired and overwhelmed and seeking comfort. He pressed his face into Crowley’s hair and knew with quiet, joyful certainty that he would hold him close for the rest of their lives.

Eventually, Crowley’s breathing slowed. He shifted position, putting his face to Aziraphale’s neck, sniffling slightly. Aziraphale kissed the top of his head.

“I love you,” he said.

“Careful,” Crowley mumbled, a little wetly. “You’ll set me off again.”

After another few minutes, he sat back and looked at Aziraphale, eyes puffy. Aziraphale wiped Crowley’s cheeks with his thumb.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. Crowley nodded. Aziraphale hummed happily, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of Crowley’s hand where it rested against his chest. “Good. Because I have a question.”

“Go on…”

Aziraphale leant in to whisper. “What’s in the box?”

He looked pointedly at the pink box Crowley had been carrying when he came in.

“Oh!” Crowley laughed. “Yeah, alright, pass it here.”

The box was a little over six inches long, and around four inches in both depth and width. It had CRÈME written across the top in stylish white and gold, and the bottom of it felt slightly warm to the touch. Tangled together as they were, Crowley had to hold it for Aziraphale to open with his free hand, the other still resolutely wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders. Nestled inside were six of the fattest, gooiest cookies Aziraphale had ever seen.

“Oh my goodness,” he said, as the smell hit him. “Oh, good lord, Crowley, these look incredible.”

“They ought to. £22 a box. Daylight robbery.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him, and he shrugged. “I wanted you to have something nice,” he said simply. “After everything you said. Wanted you to know, you deserve it.”

Aziraphale could hardly contain the rush of love that ran through him. “Thank you, my dear. What do you say I make the tea while you freshen up a bit, and we can share them?”

Crowley agreed, and sloped into the bathroom to wash the salt from his face. When Aziraphale returned with two steaming mugs of tea, he found Crowley curled up at one end of the sofa, picking his cuticles. He looked up when Aziraphale entered, and smiled at him. He looked wonderful. Still a little shaky, perhaps, but there was a soft, building hope in his eyes that made Aziraphale want to sing with joy.

Mercifully, he refrained. Instead, he handed Crowley one of the mugs, set his own down on the arm of the sofa, and took the box of cookies in one hand. With the other, he waved Crowley over to his side of the sofa. A small hesitation, and then Crowley scooted across the cushions to press close to Aziraphale’s side. He fit there like he’d been made for it, and who knows - perhaps he had. Aziraphale wouldn’t put it past Her. He draped an arm around Crowley’s shoulders and cuddled him close.

“That’s better,” he said fondly. “How are you feeling?”

Crowley shrugged. “Alright.” A gentle smile pulled at his lips. “Good,” he amended.

“Glad to hear it. Now, what do we have here?”

Crowley pointed at each of the cookies in turn. “Double chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate and miso-”

“Ooh!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. That one’s banana and dark chocolate. And then they only do those four kinds, but it’s six in a box so I got you another double chocolate and another miso. Thought they’d be your favourites.”

“How thoughtful. Let’s start with this one, shall we?”

The cookies were incredibly soft, barely set and still warm as if fresh from the oven.[1] Aziraphale broke off a piece of the double chocolate, and the moan that escaped him while he ate was only partly intentional.

“Oh, my word,” he sighed. “That is delightful. Here,” he said, and before Crowley could object he tore off a second piece and popped it into Crowley’s mouth. “Isn’t it perfect?”

Crowley swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, it’s nice…”

“How about the miso one? Sweet and salt is such a lovely combination. Here we go.” This was, if anything, even more delicious. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he chewed, humming contentedly. When he’d swallowed, he licked his fingers clean and eyed the box. “Which one now, do you think? I hope you don’t mind me trying a bit of all of them, it seems like a waste to eat them one at a time.”

Crowley made a non-committal noise. He hadn’t blinked for some time. When Aziraphale lifted a chunk of cookie, oozing with milk chocolate, to his mouth, the sound that came out of Crowley very closely matched Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at him.

“Are you alright, there?” he said, perfectly innocent. Crowley didn’t answer. “Here, try this,” said Aziraphale brightly. He swiped a finger through a dollop of melted chocolate and held it up to Crowley’s lips. Crowley shot him a look, and Aziraphale’s smile broadened and grew ever so slightly wicked. “Go on,” he urged softly.

With a sigh, Crowley opened his mouth and slipped Aziraphale’s finger between his lips. His tongue was hot and perfect, and the slight pressure as he sucked made Aziraphale bite his lower lip. When Crowley pulled away, his cheeks were pink, caught between embarrassment and being absolutely delighted with himself.

“Would you like some more?” said Aziraphale. Crowley shook his head, and Aziraphale considered the biscuits. “Perhaps a different one?”

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s smile broadened. “We haven’t tried the banana one yet.”

“I don’t like banana.”

“Don’t you? Since when?”

“I’ve never- Look, that’s not the-”

“Which would you like, then?”

“I don’t want a bloody biscuit!”

“No?” Their eyes met. Crowley was flushed with frustration, his ears hot and pink. He tried to look sternly at Aziraphale, the effect ruined entirely by the blush in his cheeks and his ridiculous, electric-shock hair. Aziraphale only smiled wider. “Well, Crowley,” he said, gently teasing. “If you don’t want a biscuit then tell me - what do you want?”

Crowley glared at him. “You’re such a shit.” Aziraphale hummed in agreement, nuzzling the side of Crowley’s head. “I want…” Crowley began. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Aziraphale. I… I want you to kiss me.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. “What a thought. Are you quite sure?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said warningly.

Aziraphale lifted the box over to the coffee table, setting first his and then Crowley’s mug of tea down beside it. Gently, he trailed his fingers over Crowley’s tattoo, making Crowley’s eyes flutter shut at the touch.

“Well,” he murmured. “If you insist.”

Crowley’s lips were warm and dry, barely parting under Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale was in no hurry. He moved slowly, luxuriating in the delicious scrape of stubble, contrasting with the softness of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley’s hand slipped around Aziraphale’s waist, past the open front of his waistcoat to squeeze the lovely plumpness of him. Aziraphale could feel the gentle ridges of Crowley’s ribs where he held Crowley’s close, and found it quite as enchanting.

He pulled away, Crowley’s breath hot and sweet against his lips. “Hold on,” he said, adjusting his hold.

He leant back against the arm of the sofa. Immediately, Crowley wriggled to slot himself between Aziraphale’s legs with a happy sound. He braced himself with one arm on the sofa beside Aziraphale head, ran his other hand ran down Aziraphale’s flank and hummed appreciatively, pressing his fingers into the soft flesh.

Aziraphale laughed breathily. “Do you really like them that much?”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s thighs tighter around him. “They’re perfect,” he said, muffled by the kisses he was pressing to Aziraphale’s left ear. “You’re perfect.”

He buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, pulling his collar open to get at the soft skin, intent on his task. Aziraphale drifted in the sensation, his hands running mindlessly over Crowley’s body, fingers lingering on the bump where his shoulder met his clavicle, the broad sweep of his upper back, the satisfying solidity of him under the soft, warm cotton of his t-shirt. A sudden rush of emotion tightened Aziraphale’s throat. He was struck by a wave of love that broke through him so powerfully, it was all he could do to hold Crowley tight against him and try to breathe through it.

Crowley pulled back, eyes wide with surprise. When he saw Aziraphale’s face, his expression twisted into one of concern. “Angel? Are you alright?”

Aziraphale nodded quickly, too overwhelmed to speak. Crowley dropped a worried little kiss to Aziraphale’s eyebrow, a moment of such simple, artless affection that it pulled Aziraphale back into the moment. He found Crowley’s eyes with his own and let out a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Crowley frowned. “For what?”

“This week. Everything. How… How I… Oh, everything. I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

A series of expressions flickered across Crowley’s face, too fast for Aziraphale to read. They settled at last on something like gratitude, shot through with affection.

“I know,” he said gently. There was long pause. Then a smile started to pull at the corners of Crowley’s mouth. “Hey,” he said, nudging Aziraphale’s nose with his. “We got here though, didn’t we? In the end?”

The tightness in Aziraphale’s chest loosened, he laughed softly. “We did,” he admitted.

“Well then,” said Crowley, wriggling himself comfortable once more. “Nothing to worry about.” 

He brought his mouth back to Aziraphale’s, kissing him with sweet, earnest enthusiasm. After a few long, lovely minutes, he opened his mouth, and faltered. Aziraphale’s heart jumped, seeing the hesitation for what it was.

“Like this,” he whispered, and brushed his tongue against the swell of Crowley’s bottom lip. Crowley’s breath hitched, sending a shiver of pleasure through Aziraphale. Then, cautiously, he mimicked the movement with his own tongue. Aziraphale sighed happily. “That’s it,” he said softly. “And then…”

He opened his mouth a little wider, slipping his tongue between Crowley’s lips. Crowley twitched, surprised, and Aziraphale’s was filled with a blooming rush of affection.

“My dear boy,” he breathed. “My dear, sweet boy…”

It took a minute or so for Crowley to get the hang of things, but he’d always been a quick study. Besides, he’d been thinking about this for some time, only lacking a chance to put things into practice.[2] Their mouths moved against each other in a lazy rhythm, every sigh and shift of Crowley’s body sending sparks through Aziraphale’s mind.

They might have stayed like that for hours, if Aziraphale had been a halfway decent kisser himself. As it was, he was excellent. Soon, Crowley’s hips were pushing against Aziraphale in thoughtless, needy jerks. He made a small, desperate noise in the back of his throat, his hands moving restlessly over Aziraphale’s body.

Aziraphale was hardly less affected. He pulled back, breathing hard, prompting a noise of outrage from Crowley. He blinked down at Aziraphale in dopey indignation. His hair was even more of a blizzard than it had been before, his lips swollen and soft. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“When you said earlier that you hadn’t… That you’d never…” Doubt crept into Crowley’s face as Aziraphale spoke, and Aziraphale rushed to reassure him. “Oh, no, darling, you’re lovely. You’re completely wonderful. I just wondered. That is, I wanted to check.”

Crowley’s t-shirt was hanging down in front of him, leaving the perfect space for Aziraphale to reach up and brush his fingers through the trail of hair around Crowley’s navel. He went on, cautiously hopeful.

“I wanted to check whether that was because you, um. You didn’t think you’d enjoy it, or…?”

Crowley laughed, breaking the tension. He leant down and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s, smiling round the words. “Take me to bed, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, concern melting away. “I’d love to.” For a moment they didn’t move. Crowley looked down at him with such adoration, it took Aziraphale’s breath away. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” he said, the words slipping out as he thought them.

Crowley wrinkled his nose, opening his mouth as if to argue - only to be interrupted by Aziraphale poking him, hard, in the ribs. “Ow! Fuck! What was that for?!”

“You were going to say something horribly self-deprecating and I’m not having it,” said Aziraphale, without a hint of contrition. Crowley glared at him, rubbing the sore spot, but he didn’t deny the accusation. “You’re beautiful, Crowley, quite stupendously so. I won’t hear a word to the contrary.”

Crowley’s flush deepened at the words, he didn’t seem to know where to look. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Finally, Aziraphale took pity on him and pulled him down into a cuddle, letting him hide his face in Aziraphale’s chest.

“You’re lovely,” he said into the top of Crowley’s head. “You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. And I don’t just mean because I love you. You’re very sexy.”

Crowley huffed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘sexy’ before.”

“What should I say instead? Gorgeous? Alluring? Hot stuff? Positively snoggable? _Peng_?”

By now, Crowley was snorting with laughter, helpless with the indignity. He covered his head with his arms, groaning something about ‘ridiculous’. When Crowley lifted his face, he rested his chin on Aziraphale’s chest and looked up at him with such joy on his face, Aziraphale couldn’t help beaming back.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said.

“Mm. I’m glad you didn’t discorporate me on sight.”

“It was a close thing,” Aziraphale admitted. “I think my subconscious noticed the bakery box and held me back.”

“They should put that in their advertising.”

“Cookies so good, they can avert an avenging angel.”

“They’d better. Price of them.”

“£22 for six biscuits, honestly Crowley. A packet of digestives would have made your point perfectly well.”

“Angel.”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Alright then. Up you get.”

Crowley slithered to standing, pulling Aziraphale up after him. Aziraphale took him by the hand and led him down the corridor to the bedroom, turning on a bedside lamp to fill the room with warm light.

“So,” said Crowley, looking around him. “This is where the magic happens.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He sat down on the end of the bed and waited. Crowley’s sense of urgency seemed to have disappeared. He walked around the room, trailing a long finger along one of the bookshelves, and dipped his head to look out of the window.

“This south-facing?” he asked, squinting at the view. Night had fallen in earnest, and Aziraphale knew he couldn’t be seeing very much of anything apart from the glow of other people’s windows. “You should get some plants in here. Bit of colour, liven up the place.”

“Crowley.”

“Oleander, maybe? Bit of jasmine. I love the smell of jasmine, don’t you? Takes me right back.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently. Reluctantly, Crowley let the curtain drop, turning back to face him. “I didn’t bring you in here for gardening tips.”

He held out his hand. Crowley slipped his fingers between Aziraphale’s and let himself be pulled to stand between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale held him by the hips, looking up at him. Crowley brought his hands up to run through Aziraphale’s hair.

“I’ve got some flaming katy at home,” he said, not quite nonchalant. “Could drop it round.”

Aziraphale ignored him. He tucked his thumbs under the hem of Crowley’s t-shirt and lifted it, revealing a strip of pale stomach scattered with freckles. He pressed his mouth to the soft skin, kissing slowly round to the jut of one bony hip. Crowley sighed at the sensation. His hands tightened in Aziraphale’s hair, making him groan in turn and press his teeth gently into the spare flesh.

“Your,” he tried to say. He swallowed, took another run at it. “Your Hallowe’en costume.” He trailed his tongue over the hair on Crowley’s belly.

“You liked it?” said Crowley, a smile in his voice as Aziraphale peppered his stomach with kisses. “You didn’t seem that bothered.”

“I was bothered,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Hot and.”

He gave a tug, pulling Crowley to straddle his lap, and ran appreciative hands down from Crowley’s ribs to his thighs and up again. In a smooth movement he lifted Crowley’s shirt up and over his head, dropping it to the floor and kissing his neck, his chest, every part of him he could reach. Crowley’s body was hot beneath his hands, lean and lovely.

With a grunt of frustration, Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s waistcoat off his shoulders. “Lift up,” he said, a note of annoyance in his voice.

Aziraphale laughed against his skin, letting go of Crowley just long enough to let him unceremoniously shove his waistcoat and shirt off before wrapping his arms around him and pressing their bodies together. The sensation was incredible. For a moment it was all Aziraphale could do to bury his face in Crowley’s shoulder and remember how to breathe. It was so real all of a sudden. He had Crowley in his arms and he was warm and heavy and alive, laughing delightedly into Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale kissed him, and kept on kissing him, and felt he could keep kissing him until the next apocalypse and beyond.

And then Crowley rolled his hips in a distinctly sinful motion, and Aziraphale revised his plans. In a single motion, he tightened his grip on Crowley’s waist and stood. Crowley squeaked, grabbing onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding on tight.

“Fucking hell, angel!”

Aziraphale turned and climbed onto the bed, laying Crowley down with Aziraphale held tight between his thighs. “Not fucking yet,” he said, kissing every part of Crowley’s face he didn’t think he’d got to yet.

“That’s three ‘fucks’ out of you in two months,” Crowley noted. “Two of them today. I’m starting to think I’m a bad influence.”

Aziraphale propped himself up on his elbows. “Not nearly as bad an influence,” he said dryly, “as I’m about to be.”

Crowley’s face lit up. “Is that so?”

“Mm. I’m afraid I’m going to spoil you completely, my boy.”

Crowley settled into the pillows, letting his hands rest on either side of his head. “If you must,” he sighed.

Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek once more, and moved his mouth to the long line of Crowley’s neck. He worked slowly and thoroughly, delighting in the surge of Crowley’s pulse against his tongue. When he scraped his teeth down Crowley’s throat, the groan of pleasure it elicited sent a surge of arousal through him.

He rested one hand on the other side of Crowley’s neck while he bit and licked and kissed his way down to Crowley’s collarbone. When he moved to take one of Crowley’s nipples in his mouth, he pulled his hand away, only for Crowley to grip his wrist, holding it in place. He looked up at Crowley, eyebrows raised.

“Just… Just a bit?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled, happy to oblige. He kept the hand where it was, not pushing, but keeping a steady, gentle pressure on Crowley’s throat as he starting teasing his nipple. Crowley arched his back, pressing himself into the touch. He twisted his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, holding him in place as Aziraphale flicked his tongue across his nipple over and over. Experimentally, Aziraphale curled his fingers to drag his nails down Crowley’s neck. Crowley bucked and swore, the grip in Aziraphale’s hair tightening.

“Yes?” Aziraphale said, smiling.

“ _Yesss_ ,” Crowley hissed. “Fucking… yes, obviously yes, Jesus Chrissst-”

He cut off when Aziraphale repeated the move, this time matching it with the press of teeth around Crowley’s nipple. The effect was electric. Crowley pushed up against the solid, certain weight of Aziraphale’s body, without which he might have sent himself flying.

Aziraphale lifted his knee, pressing it gently into Crowley’s crotch. As soon as he did, Crowley starting rocking against it, moaning at the sudden pressure. The jerking of his hips became frantic, and he started to pull away, pushing Aziraphale’s face off him.

“Wait, wait,” he gasped. “Wait, hold on, I don’t- Jesus Christ, Aziraphale,” he panted, his blush spilling down his neck and daubing his chest in red blotches. Even his elbows looked pink. Aziraphale sat back on his heels and tried not to laugh, earning himself a sharp, yellow glare. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s alright for you, you old tart. Used to it all by now, aren’t you? Take it all in your slutty, slutty stride.”

At that, Aziraphale really did laugh. He waited, letting Crowley catch his breath. His eyes drifted, quite accidentally, down the long lines of Crowley’s torso to the waistband of his jogging bottoms.

“You’d be more comfortable without those,” he said lightly.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him where he slumped against the pillows. “Would I, indeed.”

Slowly, Aziraphale ran his finger round the waistband, just skirting under the elastic. Crowley touched his hand, a light, cautious brush of his fingers.

“You first?” he offered, not quite masking the note of nervousness in his voice.

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Of course, my dear.”

He knelt up, unbuttoning his fly and pulling off his trousers with as much grace as he could muster. His socks followed, and finally his boxers. Crowley watched without blinking, following the movement of Aziraphale’s hands with the careful eyes of a snake. When he was finally naked, Crowley pulled him close, skimming his hands over Aziraphale’s body.

“Oh, you’re perfect,” he breathed. He raked his fingers through the curly white hair that spilled across Aziraphale’s chest and down over the swell of his stomach. “You’re so perfect.”

“Would you like…?” Aziraphale said, his fingers hooking into Crowley’s waistband.

Crowley nodded, raising his hips to let Aziraphale shimmy off first the jogging bottoms, then the boxer-briefs beneath. Aziraphale covered Crowley’s body with his own, relishing the feel of their bodies together. Then he slipped a hand between Crowley’s legs where his cock jutted, hard and hot. He moved his hand over it slowly, letting Crowley get used to the sensation.

Gradually, he started to move himself down Crowley’s body, dropping kisses against the hot skin as he went. With a gentle hand, he pushed Crowley’s legs apart and pressed his face to the inside of his thighs, kissing a trail upwards from his knee to the crease of his hip. Then, finally, he slipped Crowley’s cock into his mouth, running his tongue over the tip and sucking gently, swallowing the precum that beaded there. A noise from the other end of the bed caught his attention. He looked up, and saw Crowley lying with his hands over his face, shoulders shaking.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale, alarmed.

Crowley pulled his hands away, and to his great relief Aziraphale saw that he was laughing. “Yes,” he said, weakly. “Fuck. I’m fine. I just…” He giggled - an honest to goodness giggle, helpless and absurd. “You’re sucking my dick. You, actual you, sitting down there, happy as a clam, with my cock in your mouth.”

“A clam,” Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley waved him away, still giggling. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s just funny. Getting sucked off by an angel.”

Aziraphale settled back down between Crowley’s legs and rested his head on Crowley’s thigh to look up at him. “Not a very good angel,” he pointed out.

Crowley hummed in agreement, playing with Aziraphale’s curls. “My favourite, though.”

Slowly, Crowley’s laughter subsided. With one final kiss to Crowley’s leg, Aziraphale knelt up. He raised a questioning eyebrow and nodded towards Crowley’s crotch. “May I?”

Crowley snorted. “Have at it.”

This time as Aziraphale moved, he felt Crowley relax, letting out little sighs and sounds of pleasure. Aziraphale let his eyes flutter close and concentrated on the clean salt taste of Crowley, the weight of him against his tongue, the delicious stretch of his lips. After a time, he lifted Crowley’s legs up onto his shoulders and pushed, taking Crowley entirely. His own prick hung heavy and hard between his legs, but he paid it no mind. He rose and fell, setting a slow, steady rhythm, losing himself in the meditative slide of Crowley’s cock against his lips, over his tongue, into the push of his throat. At first Crowley’s hips moved with him, matching his rhythm. But before long, Crowley was twisting with pleasure, hands flitting from the bedspread to Aziraphale to his own hair, desperate for purchase.

“Aziraphale,” he said, almost a whimper. “Wait…”

As soon as he said it, Aziraphale lifted his head. He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you alright, darling?”

Crowley nodded, teeth buried in his lower lip. “Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, I just… I don’t want it to be over so fast.”

The words came out in a rush. Crowley covered his face with his arms, mortified. Aziraphale made a thoughtful noise.

“I know how you feel,” he said. He leant over and kissed Crowley on the elbow, because he’d always wanted to. Crowley pulled his arms away and looked at him. “I do,” he insisted. He kissed his shoulder. “I’ve always found the refractory period to be a particularly frustrating part of… human… physiology.”

He looked meaningfully at Crowley. Crowley looked back, nonplussed. Then, realisation dawned.

“Oh. _Oh_. Well, in that case!” He sat up a little straighter on the pillows and gestured to his crotch. “Come on, then! Back to it!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he slipped back down the bed to take up his position once more. This time, there was no steady, building rhythm. He let his mouth grow wet, bobbing up and down with slick, obscene noises. He wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s cock and moved them in time with his mouth, adding an extra layer of pressure and sensation. Crowley arched and twisted, delicious noises spilling out of him with every exhale. His hands scrabbled at the bedspread, suddenly urgent.

“Aziraphale,” he said warningly, a split second before he came.

Aziraphale moaned as Crowley spilled into his mouth, the sharp pain of Crowley’s hands pulling at his hair sparking bright and grounding. When Crowley finally fell boneless against the mattress, Aziraphale moved. He pulled off Crowley’s cock and with strong hands, flipped Crowley onto his front. In one motion, Aziraphale moved one of Crowley’s legs higher up the bed, holding it in place with a firm hand. With his other hand, he pushed apart Crowley’s cheeks and licked a hot, wet stripe from his perineum to the cleft of his arse, letting Crowley’s own come spill out of his mouth as he did so.

Crowley thrust his face into the mattress with a wordless cry. Aziraphale grunted, burying his face between Crowley’s cheeks, his jaw working as he licked into him in steady, relentless strokes. His cock was aching hard, he reached a hand between his legs and squeezed, thrusting into his fist in time with his tongue, lost in the delicious, filthy pleasure of the act and the incredible noises each brush of his tongue pulled from Crowley’s throat.

Time slipped loose around them, seconds and minutes rendered meaningless. After an interminable amount of time, Aziraphale realised Crowley was speaking.

“…up, I want to come up, can I…” he was muttering, hardly enough energy to raise his voice.

Aziraphale sat back, letting Crowley pull himself up shakily onto his knees. Crowley put his face in the crook of his arms, panting with the exertion. While he waited, Aziraphale wiped the sweat from his forehead, catching his breath and taking in the sight in front of him. Crowley’s back shone with sweat, his ribs visible where his raised arms stretched him out. Aziraphale ran an appreciative hand down the spare swell of Crowley’s arse, squeezing gently. Crowley shifted his weight, arching his back a little.

“More,” he said at last. “Please.”

Crowley’s hole was slick and wet, and the taste of it mixing with the taste of Crowley’s come was exhilarating. Aziraphale traced it with his tongue, delicate at first before pushing inside. He held Crowley steady with one hand, and with the other he reached forwards and started to play with Crowley’s cock. It was already dripping, a steady stream of precum that came in surges as Aziraphale pumped his hand up and down. It wasn’t long before he came again, spilling over Aziraphale’s fist with a sigh.

He slumped forwards, exhausted. Aziraphale helped him onto his back, and Crowley clung to him in a tangle of sweaty limbs, pressing kisses to every part of Aziraphale that passed near his mouth. Aziraphale lay beside him with Crowley’s legs thrown over his hip, his arms around his neck, and kissed him lazily while Crowley came back to himself. He dragged his hand down Crowley’s side, an unbroken line from rib to thigh. He was hot to the touch, skin damp with sweat.

Aziraphale trailed his fingers up the back of Crowley’s thigh, seeing how the hair that grew dark and thick on Crowley’s shins thinned out in the long climb to his hips. Crowley watched as he brought his hand round to squeeze Crowley’s arse, tracing his finger down the centre and pressing gently at his hole, eyebrows raised in a question.

To his surprise, Crowley laughed. “What?” said Aziraphale. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” said Crowley, resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re insatiable.”

“I haven’t been sated, yet,” Aziraphale pointed out, very aware of his erection poking into Crowley’s other thigh.

“Is it always like this?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale ran his finger up and down the line of his arse, almost absent-mindedly. “Because I don’t think I’ll have the energy if this is what you’re like every time.”

Aziraphale laughed, kissing Crowley on the end of the nose. “Don’t worry. I’m just showing off. It’ll be standard missionary from here on out.”

Crowley smiled, sleepy and content. “Is that so.”

“Mm. Once a month at first, but we’ll get it down to about twice a year in no time.” He pressed his finger against Crowley’s hole, making Crowley shiver with pleasure.

“Well,” he sighed happily, closing his eyes. “At least I’ll know when you’ve gone off me.”

Aziraphale’s hand stilled, making Crowley look at him. “I’m not going to go off you,” he said.

“I know,” said Crowley softly.

Aziraphale kissed his forehead. “Why not?” he prompted. Crowley rolled his eyes, and Aziraphale pinched his arse. “Why not?” he asked again, grinning as Crowley swore at him.

“Because you love me! God, you’re such a drama queen!”

Aziraphale kissed him - as good a way to shut him up as any.

His fingers were miraculously slick as they pumped in and out, stretching Crowley open quicker than a human body would have allowed. Soon, Crowley was squirming against the pillow, mumbling incoherently into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale rolled onto his back, pulling Crowley with him. He sat up against the headboard and waited while Crowley arranged himself to sit straddling Aziraphale’s hips.

When he was in place, Crowley looked down at Aziraphale’s body and licked his lips. His fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s thick cock, squeezing experimentally. Aziraphale let his head fall back against the headboard.

“Good?” said Crowley.

“Very.”

For a while, Aziraphale let himself get lost in the sensation. Crowley’s fingers were long, quick and clever, easily learning where to apply pressure, where to gently twist, when to move fast and when slow. Aziraphale’s hips thrust mindlessly into Crowley’s hand.

“I want…” he breathed. “Darling, I want you.”

Crowley moved, getting himself into position. Aziraphale took him by the hips and waited until Crowley had guided him into place. The blunt tip of his cock nudged at Crowley’s entrance. Aziraphale tried to keep a handle on things, but his breathing was already ragged.

“Are… Are you ready?” he asked.

Crowley nodded, rubbing himself back and forth over Aziraphale’s cock. Finally, with aching, delicious slowness, he started to sink down onto it, inch by hot, impossible inch. He bottomed out with a soft cry, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. Aziraphale pushed the sweaty strands of red hair back from Crowley’s forehead.

“Darling? Is it alright? Does it hurt?”

Crowley shook his head quickly. “No. No, it’s good. Fuck, Aziraphale, it’s so good. Is it-?”

“Oh dear boy,” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, Crowley, I’ve never…”

He broke off as Crowley shifted, a fractional movement but enough to make Aziraphale see stars. Then he started to move in earnest, riding Aziraphale’s dick in a slow, uneven rhythm. His fingers dug into Aziraphale’s shoulders hard enough that he was sure there would be bruises. The thought was invigorating, and Aziraphale brought his hands to Crowley’s waist and moved with him, thrusting into the tight, incredible heat of Crowley’s body.

“I’m going to come. Crowley, darling, I’m going… I’m going to…”

His orgasm broke through him, waves of pleasure crashing one after another. His cock pulsed, filling Crowley’s hole until he could feel it spilling out of him. The thought alone carried him through his first orgasm and halfway to the second.

Still buried in Crowley to the hilt, Aziraphale turned them so that he was on top, Crowley’s long legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked into him. Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, moaning with every roll of Aziraphale’s hips. Aziraphale fumbled to take Crowley’s prick in his hand, jerking it in time with him.

“Come for me, Crowley,” he said, his voice rough and desperate. “Oh, my dear. Oh, come for me, darling, one more, I know you can, you’re so good for me, Crowley…”

With a strangled cry, the sudden heat of Crowley’s orgasm spilled over his torso, immediately smeared between their bodies. He tightened as he came and the sudden pressure was too much for Aziraphale, who shuddered through his own orgasm, biting down on Crowley’s shoulder with a moan.

He lost track of time for a while after that. Eventually he pulled himself carefully free and lay on his side, exhausted. His eyes flickered open and he saw Crowley staring slack-jawed at the ceiling, utterly spent. His hair was wet with sweat, sticking to his forehead in streaks, and the flush in his cheeks trailed all the way down his neck and over his chest. Slowly, Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale. His mouth opened and closed without any sound coming out. He swallowed, licked his lips - then licked them again, finding they were still dry.

“Aziraphale,” he managed.

“Hmm.”

“Aziraphale, I am… I am completely covered in jizz.” Aziraphale snorted with laughter. Crowley continued. “Fucking… I’m covered in the stuff, Aziraphale. What the fuck did you do to me. I feel like a glazed doughnut.”

“You are a doughnut.”

“Oh, very nice, I like that. He’s all ‘I love you’ and ‘you are the wind beneath my wings’ to start out, but as soon as he gets his end away it’s back with the insults.”

Aziraphale clicked his fingers sleepily, cleaning them both up and laundering the bedspread for good measure.

“You’re very annoying,” he said matter of factly, his voice muffled slightly from the way his face was pressed into the pillow.

“It’s been said,” Crowley grinned. “Oh, speaking of which…”

He reached over Aziraphale to the bedside table to pick something up. Aziraphale didn’t see what. If he couldn’t see it from where he lay, plastered to the mattress, then he didn’t believe it was worth seeing. When Crowley sat back, he had, quite improbably, his mobile phone in his hand.

“Here - say cheese.”

“What? No, Crowley, I’m not-”

Too late. Crowley had already snapped a selfie. He showed it to Aziraphale - Crowley in the foreground, grinning like an idiot and giving a big thumbs up. He’d angled the camera to keep his eyes out of shot, which had the happy effect of including much more of Aziraphale behind him, looking about as post-coital as it was possible to look without a dishevelled silk nightie slipping off his shoulder and a cigarette in his mouth. Aziraphale made a discontented noise.

“What’s that for?” he asked. He could probably stop Crowley if he wanted to. He was finding it hard to want to do anything right then.

“Chelsea,” said Crowley happily. “Just letting her know we’re back on good terms.”

Aziraphale groaned into the pillow. Crowley came to lie down beside him, kicking the bedspread out from underneath them and pulling it up so he could wriggle under it. He rolled onto his side, looking at Aziraphale with undisguised joy.

“You’re a nightmare,” said Aziraphale. “I regret everything. I take it all back. Don’t love you. Never did.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“No. Never. None at all.”

“Hmm.” Crowley nudged him, forehead to forehead. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative, I suppose.”

A strange, arrhythmic sound starting coming through the wall from the living room. Aziraphale frowned, then realised what it was. It was the sound of his mobile phone being inundated with text messages.

“You see what you’ve begun,” he said sleepily, pulling Crowley close and plucking the mobile phone out his hands. “You menace.”

He tossed the phone away, heard it thump as it landed on the floor beside the bed.

“How dare you,” said Crowley, snuggling into Aziraphale’s embrace. He let himself be roundly and thoroughly kissed, then fell back against the pillows. “I’ve gone right off you,” he said, still grinning.

But Aziraphale was already sound asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Crowley hadn’t needed to frighten them into staying fresh - they’d simply read the room and known what was good for them
> 
> [2] Aziraphale was not particularly surprised by this quiet revelation, even given Crowley’s creativity in their phone conversations. In his experience, there was no correlation at all between a person’s ability to imagine and describe the most explicit scenes, and their actual experience. Indeed, he’d always found rather the opposite was true - the more a person had to rely on their imagination, the more vivid that imagination tended to become.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and a cheeky wee epilogue to tie things off ;)

_December, 2019_

“What,” said Crowley, holding up the object before him, “is that?”

Aziraphale looked over his newspaper at him, glasses on the end of his nose. “That’s a dildo, darling.”

“It is not!”

“I assure you it is.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t look anything like a dick. Imagine if my dick looked like that. All those twirly bits.”

“I’m sure you could manage it if you put your mind to it,” said Aziraphale, going back to his crossword.

Crowley made a contemplative noise and set the object down on one of the piles in front of him. He was kneeling amid a veritable sea of sex toys, having finally been allowed free and unfettered access to Aziraphale’s ‘box of tricks’.[1] He was naked but for a t-shirt, which seemed to Aziraphale only to emphasise how naked the rest of him was. Not that Aziraphale was complaining. Seeing Crowley naked was always a treat, and one he got to enjoy pretty well daily at this point.

Aziraphale himself was far more sensibly dressed in his reading glasses and a copy of the Sunday Times.

“Large copper in uniform heading for bogus judge’s study at night,” he read aloud. “Nine letters.”

Crowley was rooting through a jewellery box, trying to dig something out. He lost patience and tipped it out onto the blanket. “Lucubrate,” he said. “What’s this?”

“Hm? Oh. Nipple clamp. Do you know, I think you’re right, you clever old thing.”

“Another one? How many bloody nipples do you-” He cut off with a gasp. “A witch!”

“I think they’re pretty,” Aziraphale said, filling in the grid with a pencil.

“This one looks like a bug.”

“It’s a scarab. It’s an antique and worth rather a lot of money. Do not try to attach it to your nose.”

Thwarted, Crowley set the little thing aside with a grunt. Crisp, wintery sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window. The bedroom was largely the same as it had been when Crowley first stepped inside a month before, though there were now a handful of pot plants crowding the bookshelves and windowsill - not to mention significantly more dropped underpants and damp towels tending to be left on the floor. Comfortable quiet filled the room, broken only by the scratch of Aziraphale’s pencil.

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to grow suspicious.

“What have you got there?” he said. Crowley was bent over something, looking at it carefully.

“How the piss should I know,” Crowley retorted. “It’s not my kink trove. Besides, it’s all tangled up.”

He passed the fistful of gold chain up to Aziraphale, scooped the rest of the jewellery back into the box, and moved on to the next box. Aziraphale set aside the crossword and got to untangling the chain. One by one, Crowley held up this toy and that, considering them carefully before setting them down in one of three piles.

“Yes, no, maybe?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley hummed in the affirmative. He was holding a ball gag up to his mouth - handmade in Ireland with a full grain brown leather strap, not that he cared - and pulling a thoughtful face. He set it down on one pile, then moved it to another, before picking up a matching set of leather cuffs.

“Ah!” said Aziraphale, triumphantly. “Here you go. It’s a body chain. Come here, I’ll show you.”

Obligingly, Crowley scooted up to the top of the bed, still holding the cuffs, and knelt still while Aziraphale lifted the thing over his head.

“Arms through here,” he said. “That’s right. Lovely.”

It was a beautiful object, made of fine-linked gold that dripped luxuriously over its wearer. It reminded Aziraphale rather of the piece of jewellery Crowley had been wearing in that fateful photograph on Grindr. Crowley seemed quite taken with it.

“Mm,” he said, kneeling up and spreading his arms too look down at himself. “Not bad. Bit slinky for you, isn’t it?”

“I can appreciate slink,” said Aziraphale. Crowley smiled, and the sweetness of it made Aziraphale’s chest ache. “I love you,” he said.

It still thrilled him to say it out loud. He said it often, the words slipping out without his meaning them to as they walked through the park, or shared a meal, or when he woke and found Crowley beside him, sleeping with his mouth open, drool collecting on the pillow, so beautiful it took Aziraphale’s breath away.

“Love you too,” said Crowley, quite as easily.

He sat down on the pillow beside Aziraphale and threw his legs over him, a casually territorial gesture, playing idly with the cuffs. Aziraphale snuggled down, resting his head on Crowley’s chest. Without looking up, Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. Then he tossed the cuffs onto the same pile as the gag, moved down a little, and kissed Aziraphale properly.

“Which pile is that? With the cuffs,” Aziraphale asked when he’d finished.

Crowley’s ears turned pink. “Yes,” he admitted.

Aziraphale hummed, approvingly, dropping a kiss to Crowley’s chin. “I shall look forwards to it. Though, who’s that a yes for?”

“How’d you mean?”

Aziraphale moved, peppering his cheeks and the side of his nose with kisses. He had freckles there, and if Aziraphale looked at them for too long they made him quite silly. Better to cover them up.

“Is that a yes for me to wear, or you? And the other things - the paddles and suchlike. Are those for you to use on me, or the other way around?”

Crowley fell still. He looked from Aziraphale to the piles and back again. Aziraphale sighed.

“You need more piles,” he said.

“I need more piles.”

Aziraphale let him go, picking up his crossword. “Go! Do what you must.”

Crowley shot him a guilty look, and Aziraphale kissed him on the nose once more. With this blessing,[2] Crowley scrabbled happily to the other end of the bed to begin re-sorting everything.

Aziraphale watched him for a while, the long line of his back, the bright shock of hair, his ridiculous, wriggling limbs. Then Crowley looked over his shoulder at him, and hit him with a grin that fairly sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. And Aziraphale smiled back, perfectly and entirely content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Less a box, as it turned out, and more a series of suitcases, jewellery boxes, under-bed drawers, and in some cases, archival-grade garment bags. Aziraphale had gone to great lengths to explain that he kept the vast majority of his collection for sentimental or historical value, and really only used a very small percentage on anything like a regular basis. Crowley did not, for a moment, believe him.
> 
> [2] Safely metaphorical.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Grindr Logo Doesn't Even Have a 'G' In It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28025286) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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